


Five Kinds of Crazy

by kcscribbler



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Background Relationships, Crew as Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25087303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcscribbler/pseuds/kcscribbler
Summary: Five times some part of Spock's Vulcan nature annoyed James Kirk to no end, and one time he (literally) couldn't live without it. Begins immediately post-ST:09, moves throughBeyondand ends in an alternateGenerationstimeline.
Relationships: Spock/Nyota Uhura
Comments: 39
Kudos: 97





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first story of any length I wrote in this fandom, and so I’ll always have a soft spot for it even if it’s not my most introspective.

**I. His ability to move silently, even if it's creepy as hell and Jim is really Not In The Mood right now.**

After ten long, grueling days of limping along under half impulse power and a damaged, still shell-shocked crew barely out of (or still in) cadet uniform, they finally are intercepted by the first of the relief vessels headed their way; one of only fifteen starships of any significant size left in the 'Fleet, this a medical freighter which had escaped Nero's vengeful rampage due to its being in orbit around a quarantined planet halfway across the Laurentian system.

Lucky them.

Ten excruciating, agonizing days (and nights, because who's sleeping when nightmares are just a continuation of reality?) of basically nothing but hours upon hours of paperwork – he'd no idea being a captain could be such a boring, tedious, and sometimes ridiculous job – which was being funneled through the single data-PADD which had been reluctantly keyed to his bio-signature by a pissed-off Admiralty, after Spock had vehemently protested being given back command. (Pike's sole comment on the matter, when he'd finally woken after five days of delicate neural surgery, was a weary "Don't blow anything else up, kid," before succumbing again to the planet-strength meds he was being pumped full of, to deaden the pain from damaged neural pathways.)

Spock is, to all appearances at least, back to normal, so that's a check in the plus column, but he still insists upon remaining Second Officer, for reasons only known to him. Jim is too exhausted at this point to argue with a Vulcan, especially that Vulcan, and besides if the guy feels anything like _he_ does emotionally, still reeling under the backwash of what was probably a botched mind-meld courtesy of Back-from-the-Future-Spock, then maybe it's best that Spock 2.0 isn't the one having to spend six hours a day signing off on stupid tedium. And that's _before_ all the news scans (gods, had more than 80% of the 'Fleet really been wiped out?) and death reports (he almost puked right there on the Bridge when he read the details of how the fifty-four crewmen on Deck Nine died) and subspace inquiries about how many survivors of Vulcan had been picked up from the planet's evacuation pods (nowhere near enough, most of them children; that in itself made him want to weep – had humans really accused them of not having emotions, of not loving? Idiots.)

James T. Kirk is quite proud of the fact that, even after more than a week, no one has yet caught on to the fact that due to his status as a stowaway aboard, he doesn't even have any crew quarters assigned. Granted, it has meant some quick uniform changing and sonic showering in Sickbay, along with catnaps in closed-off Jefferies' tubes or on Bones's couch when the man is off-duty and can't zero in on his condition like the crazed homing beacon he is. But he's been successful so far in flying carefully under the radar due simply to the chaos still reigning in Sickbay over Dr. Puri's death and the horrific death toll aboard still being tallied, what bodies they could identify being cremated if permitted by existing directives or else put in cryo-stasis for the long, grueling trip back to Terra.

He's also been successful in convincing the Bridge alpha shift all week that he was going to follow them off the Bridge shortly, and then convincing beta shift that he'd just walked on, able to cover both so far without any of the equally exhausted crew catching on that he was working a sixteen-hour day to permit them time to sleep and cry and go to therapy or whatever they needed to do to deal with the events of the last ten days. It’s easier on stressed officers to have a consistent leader, and he knows it’s helped establish a new sort of temporary normality to have him at the helm for every main shift, even if no one really knows or cares who he is.

He guesses he could crash in a dead crewman's assigned cabin, but it seems so wrong, so disrespectful, somehow, to take advantage of the ship more than he has already. It's only for another week, anyway, then they are scheduled to rendezvous with the _Patagonia_ near the Jupiter outpost. There Commodore Wentworth is supposed to take over and guide the _Enterprise_ into drydock around Terra, since Jim has never done a docking before outside command simulations and Spock still stubbornly, oddly, refuses to take the command seat. Captain Pike is being transferred over to a medical ship before they reach Jupiter for another series of more intensive neural surgeries that McCoy simply isn't specialized enough to perform to his own comfort level, so visiting Commodore it is. Frankly…Jim is ready to stop being captain; it isn't what he'd thought it would be, although he suspects this mission is juuuuuust slightly atypical for a day-in-the-life of a Starfleet captain.

So by the point he gives the order to a nervous seventeen-year-old navigator, assisted by the still-functioning autopilot, to dock alongside the medical freighter _Nightingale_ , Acting Captain James T. Kirk is functioning on basically four hours' sleep and a prayer, in addition to as many stimulants as he could steal from Sickbay under and behind Bones's watchful eye.

He walks into Shuttle Bay Four now, fumbling to smooth the hem of his slightly wrinkled gold tunic, a deceased Lieutenant's uniform hastily borrowed from a cabin never to see its too-young occupant again. At least the color's correct, and it is clean, and comfortable. Even after a couple of rounds with McCoy's dermal regenerator and bone-knitter, he is still feeling occasional twinges of pain from the ribs he'd broken in his fall from the platforms within the _Narada_ , and his voice has only just started sounding normal after being choked by three different super-humanly strong beings in one day. (Spock had been much relieved, he could tell despite the lack of expression, to find that not all the damage had been done by him alone, though that didn't stop Bones from banning him from Sickbay for the duration of Jim's treatment.)

The Vulcan refugees are going to be the first to disembark to the _Nightingale_ , to meet a Vulcan healer aboard the medical transport. Gathered at the far side of the room in a small, silent knot, they are already waiting for the shuttle bay doors to open, which will indicate the airlock on the other side has sealed and decompressurized.

He sighs; this is going to be difficult enough with one Vulcan staring him down, much less a whole group of them. But he never has backed down from a challenge, and gods know the guy deserves to hear this, at least. Jim may not be the most by-the-book, forthright man he'd ever met (as a board of Admirals and one particular smartass half-Vulcan had pointed out during the hearing right before this entire mess started), but he has honor, and he can't just let them leave the ship without at least trying to make things right.

He approaches the silent group and clears his still painful throat somewhat awkwardly in the semi-silence, broken only by the clanking of machinery on the other side of the bay doors.

"Ambassador Sarek?"

Several heads turn his direction, all expressionless and dark, and he tries his best to not look weirded out at the dull, blank gazes of what has to be a group of painfully hurting people trying to hide it from everyone, including themselves. Then a figure moves slightly aside, raising a graying eyebrow in question.

Glad of the slight reprieve, he follows a few paces away, then faces the austere Vulcan with a calm he doesn't feel.

"May I have a word, Ambassador?"

"Of course, Mr. Kirk," is the surprisingly cordial reply; he's taken aback at the lack of severity in the tone. For a guy talking to the human who'd basically done his level best to emotionally destroy his son in front of the entire Bridge crew just eleven days ago, Sarek is pretty damn serene. But then, the guy is a Vulcan, and a diplomat; maybe he's just being polite because, well, they are on ship and therefore on security camera.

Or maybe he's just plotting a more _logical_ way to quietly dispose of Jim's body before they reach Jupiter.

Whatever, it doesn't matter; he has to plow ahead before they get those doors open and the opportunity quite literally walks away.

"Ambassador, I am aware that Vulcans consider apologies to be illogical, yet I wish to offer you one," he says directly, and without extraneous chit-chat he assumes (knows, if he's anything like his son) the elderly Vulcan would find annoying.

An eyebrow rises, and he represses the urge to grin, wonders if that's an hereditary trait for all Vulcans or just this particular family.

"As you said, Mr. Kirk. Apologies are illogical. In addition," and here it is, the slight tightening between the eyes, and the hidden spark far deep within them, that he now knows means very, very well-controlled anger – he and his abused throat are soooooo lucky Sarek has more control than his son. "I am quite certain that they are, traditionally, only offered in human culture should they actually be genuine."

Wow, Vulcan burn. "Fair enough," he replies candidly, and sees the Vulcan's expression darken slightly. "However, allow me to specify before _illogically_ _quickly_ passing judgment upon my motives, Ambassador?"

Sarek has the grace to incline his head in acknowledgement. "Pray continue."

"I cannot, and will not, apologize for doing what was necessary to compromise your son and therefore take control of this ship, in order to accomplish the goal of preventing what happened to Vulcan from happening to my own planet," he says bluntly. "To do so would be, as you say, not genuine, and frankly would be illogical, since I am certain you would never wish such a fate to befall another Federation world."

Sarek nods, once.

"However," and he drops his gaze finally, shame heating his face with entirely genuine regret, "I do apologize for harming your son in the process, and thereby harming you – emotionally and mentally. Even a Vulcan, I'm sure, can be permitted such a liberty as indulging in the emotion of grief after such a loss, and for _exploiting_ that in such a manner, I do sincerely apologize. I grieve with you both, sir."

He looks back up as he speaks the last. His research, hasty but as thorough as it could be through a damaged library bank, had shown that was the closest Standard translation his admittedly rusty Vulcan could find for the traditional words of sympathy, and now there is no mistaking the look of surprise on the elderly Vulcan's face.

It's a little insulting, really; he may pretend otherwise when it will suit his purposes, but he's as intelligent as most of the Vulcans that still aimlessly congregate across the room; the guy doesn't need to look like he's shocked to see that this human's actually capable of stringing together complete sentences and performing perfectly in a diplomatic capacity should the occasion require. How would he have made it to final trimester in the command track if he couldn't at least conjure up that much?

Weirdly enough, Sarek's eyes now pierce into him as if he hears these thoughts and is trying to gauge his sincerity, and he feels the unaccountably childish urge to squirm. Then from somewhere behind them, the hissing of air tells of the bay doors opening, a soft flurry of movement from their right informing them that the group of refugees, the last of the now-defunct Vulcan High Council, is moving into the medical freighter's reception area.

Sarek finally gives him one curt nod, and without a word turns and disappears into the group.

"Huh." Jim blinks after him for a second. "Well, that could have gone worse, I guess."

A throat clearing from behind him makes him jump about a foot in the air, and when he turns around it's to see an already-familiar dark eyebrow inclined in tolerant exasperation.

"Christ, Spock. We gotta get you a bell or something," he mutters, scowling at his (for now) First Officer. Spock has a weird look on his face, something he can't quite decipher, but says nothing, only spins on his heel, followed shortly by his (acting) captain. They leave the shuttle bay together and move in oddly perfect sync toward the nearest turbolift. "Were you eavesdropping on us?"

Spock looks slightly affronted, as he punches the command for the Bridge with more force than is needed. Jim eyes him with well-founded wariness as the lift begins to move. "Negative. I inquired regarding your whereabouts from the computer, and after realizing it still does not register your presence aboard due to your status as a suspended cadet, was forced to resort to locating you in person instead of utilizing the ship's intra-comm to notify you. Starfleet Command is on Priority Channel One, wishing a status update as to our success with the warp core repairs and your progress in notifying the families of the deceased cadets."

His stomach drops out at the last, and he feels the color drain from his face. Spock's eyes widen slightly. "I…could have phrased that more delicately, Captain."

"Yeah," he chokes out, scrubbing a hand over his face with utter weariness. A black haze threatens at the edges of his vision for a moment. When is the last time he ate?

A stuttered chirp of protest draws his wavering attention to the fact that for some reason Spock has halted the lift, and he blinks the haze from his vision and draws a deep cleansing breath. "What is it, Mr. Spock?"

"Captain, are you feeling quite well?"

Spock is standing waaaaay too close now, it's just weird. He can't afford to show weakness in front of the crew, and especially in front of this one crewman. "Uh. Yeah?"

"Your response does not inspire confidence."

"Well, sor- _rry_ ," he retorts, with more juvenility than the situation probably warrants. Hey, there's only so much his brain can come up with after basically not sleeping for ten days.

"Apologies are illogical," Spock states severely, one hand shooting out with scary rapidity to grasp his wrist, right over the borrowed lieutenant's command braid.

"If I have to hear that one more time today, I swear –" He breaks off as Spock's eyebrows tense; that isn't good, he is learning to read the guy a little by now. "What?"

"Your pulse is extremely erratic. That, coupled with your disorientation and the fact that you are laboring under the delusion that your alpha and beta shift crewmen do not discuss who is their apparently shared duty watch officer, are sufficient cause for concern." Spock drops his arm, and pulls up the directional computer, rapidly inputting the locational codes for Sickbay.

He swears softly, arm over his eyes against the lights that start swirling past as they change directions.

"Look –" He is interrupted by the whistle of the intra-comm.

 _"Bridge to Commander Spock. Sir, is everything all right? We saw the status of the turbolift with you and the Captain inside, and assumed you were coming to the Bridge for the call with the Admiralty."_ Uhura's voice is calm, but with a thread of pointed curtness that bespeaks of an impatient Admiral Komack on the other end of the line.

"I am escorting Mr. Kirk to Sickbay, Lieutenant. Please inform the admiral that the captain is still seeing to the comfort of the Vulcan refugees during their transfer to the _Nightingale_ , and will return his call at the earliest convenience."

Jim snorts, muffling a laugh. "That Vulcan for _not here, take a message_? I thought lying was illogical too."

Spock pointedly ignores him.

Uhura is obviously Not Happy, but that (thankfully) isn't his problem. He doesn't envy Spock tonight, though. " _Aye, sir. Bridge out_."

A sudden change of direction as they swing around a corner brings a hot lurch of nausea crawling up the back of his throat. He swallows with difficulty.

"Wait," he says, suddenly remembering the last part of Spock's statement. "You know –"

"That you have apparently been working double duty shifts during both alpha and beta, thinking that your crew would not at some point discover the fact?" Spock's disapproval is clear in his tone and look, one of clear you-are-such-an-idiot-human. "Quite so, sir. Also, that you have apparently been deceiving Dr. McCoy and indeed the rest of the crew as to the status of your sleeping quarters. I assure you, the doctor is not happy."

"Fantastic."

"Indeed."

The doors chime, heralding their presence on Sickbay deck with a dismayingly cheerful fanfare, and he slinks out into the corridor before Spock can do something illogical like shove him out.

He can hear Bones's tantrum before they're halfway down the hall.

_"I swear to God, if that kid is responsible for half my stim sets going missing he's gonna wind up makin' it back to Terra minus some real important pieces of anatomy! CHRISTINE! Where the hell is my laser scalpel?"_

He turns to run, and is brought up short by six feet of implacable Vulcan strength. And no way in hell is he chancing another nerve pinch, thanks very much.

He could either learn to love, or really, really hate this guy.

Maybe, just maybe – he'll get the chance to find out which?


	2. Chapter Two

**II. His insistence on perfection, even if Jim still isn't quite convinced Spock isn't calmly, unemotionally plotting his demise**

Eighteen months later, and he's leaning pretty firmly toward the side of hate.

He privately thinks Old Spock (Senior Spock? Alternate Universe Spock? Vulcan-brother-from-another-mother Spock? What was he supposed to call the guy?) was a few pawns short of a chess set when he said they were supposed to have some Epic Friendship To Last The Ages or whatever, because while he and Spock have unquestionably become a powerful command team, already becoming renowned in the galaxy…well, when they're not knee-deep in a mission they fight like a set of divorcing parents. Complete with yelling and throwing plates, that one notable time when no one else was in Officers' Mess at 2350 hours the night after a draining First Contact.

In fact, just this alpha shift, he heard Sulu mutter a warning to Chekov as he slid into his seat at the navigation console that he'd better "watch his step this morning, Dad and Dad are fighting again."

Just because he had it out with Spock beside the library console because he found out that his First Officer's been doctoring his reports to Starfleet Command behind his back for three months because they weren't accurate enough or detailed enough for his tastes, apparently.

Spock had taken the diatribe in his usual unblinking, bored fashion, let him rant, and then delivered his own Vulcan verbal smackdown about how he had assumed Jim would prefer them to actually be accurate, but of course if he'd prefer Starfleet Command have a reason to recall them from the field due to inconsistency in reporting then _by all means_ , Spock would be happy to stop spending the time on them.

At this point Jim had heard Uhura's head thunking on the communications console behind them and took that as a cue that they were probably getting too loud, and had cut his First off with a sharp gesture and instructions to send the information about the upcoming away mission to his PADD immediately. Ever the professional, Spock had instantly complied, but the icy disdain stabbing across the expanse from science station to command seat was palpable for the remainder of the shift.

Said away mission had then been a huge bust; the promising planet they were supposed to explore in hopes the Federation could establish a colony there turned out to have extremely toxic flora basically everywhere which might conceivably be inhabitable territory for humanoid life. It would take some major terraforming changes, or else they'd need to find some non-humanoid species resistant to the toxic blooms to do the colonizing, and neither is really a promising prospect. Now, bummed that his trip to see actual green, growing things has been cut short due to alien plant spores trying to eat his face off, he waves off Bones's continued worried ranting and leaves Sickbay, hoping to just spend the evening in one of his ship's nooks and crannies, reading in peace and quiet.

He is sitting at a small table on the aft Observation Deck, scanning over the preliminary reports on the planet (contrary to Spock's belief, he really does try to be accurate, it isn't his fault he doesn't have a Vulcan eidetic memory, thanks very much), when the air shifts with a breath of light perfume, someone gracefully folding into the seat kitty-corner from his.

"Uh," he says eloquently, still mentally bogged down in technicalities.

A small snort. "We both know you've more linguistic ability than that, in seven or eight languages at least," his Communications lieutenant replies, crossing her legs and leaning back in the chair, one long leg swinging easily under the table.

"Sorry," he mutters, shakes his head clear of the cobwebs. "What can I do for you, Lieutenant?" Despite a quite successful working relationship by now in their missions, and a friendly truce since their voyage's official inception, it's still a rare thing for Uhura to seek him out, especially without her Vulcan boyfriend.

"Mmm." Her dark ponytail shifts over one shoulder as she thoughtfully leans on one elbow, looking at him. "I'm trying to decide if you really are that clueless, or if it's just foreplay for you."

He blinks at her for a full ten seconds. "I literally have no idea what you're talking about," he says finally.

A smirk tugs at his comms chief's lips. "You really are that clueless then," she says with a light laugh.

"Uh…sure. About what, exactly?"

Uhura pats his arm, and stands from the table. "Let's take a walk, Captain. You need to learn a thing or two about communicating with a Vulcan, or at least a half-Vulcan."

* * *

"Oh _hell_ no."

Uhura chokes on her spiced tea, nearly drenching the crocheted afghan her grandmother had made her when she was a baby, which now rests on the small couch in her cabin. She laughs into the steaming mug, and takes a more careful sip.

"You're serious?"

"Believe me, I would not be bothering with this conversation if it wasn't so pathetic," she sighs, setting the mug down on a coaster.

"But – but he hates me!"

"Um, no."

"He does!"

"I just told you, he doesn't. He's got a hell of a way of showing it, I'll admit. But he doesn't."

"We fight like an old married couple!"

"And believe me, _that_ is a little annoying if I let myself think about it for too long," she retorts, with some well-deserved heat. Jim's face is probably redder now than the fire-pot Spock left in her room last weekend.

"Do you know how awkward it is knowing your boyfriend also supposedly has some weird totally-platonic soulmate?"

Jim cringes.

"I promise I have no intentions of ever trying to steal your boyfriend, Uhura. God, that's just…no. Even if – no. I would never," he says, earnestly.

She looks at him strangely. "I'm well aware of that, Kirk," she says. "Believe me, if I thought you were, we'd be having an entirely different conversation."

"I would never sleep with anyone on this crew," he says, for some reason wanting to make sure she is aware of that. By now, she knows as well as most of his people that his reputation is about as accurate as Spock's emotional psych scans – but just the same, it doesn't hurt to remind the important people in his command structure that he is all too aware of the boundaries that even he, boldest boundary-breaker of them all, will never ever cross. "I…care too much about them, for that."

"Sex is easy, relationships are hard?"

"Something like that," he admits, running a hand uneasily through his hair. "Even if I felt that way about someone – which I don't – on the crew, there's no way I'd jeopardize a friendship that important over it, or my command relationship. It would…"

"Cheapen it," Uhura supplies quietly, and he nods, for the first time thinking that they actually do understand each other. He can see what Spock sees in her, and why they fit so well together.

"But to get back to your boyfriend –"

"Subtle, Kirk."

He grins, unrepentant.

Uhura sighs. "Spock sucks at showing he cares about someone, or wants to develop a relationship with them. I should know."

"That's harsh."

"That's accurate, and therefore a logical assessment," she replies, with a hint of a smile. "You drive him crazy, Captain; and therefore, you are an anomaly, thus therefore you are fascinating."

He raises an eyebrow skeptically.

Uhura smiles at him, and picks her tea back up. "You stimulate him in a way I never will, Kirk – and that's perfectly fine. He comes alive around you, in a way I haven't seen since Vulcan was destroyed. That's the Spock I fell in love with; and it's due to your influence, not mine. My mind, my presence brings him peace, refuge – as a bondmate does. But yours? Yours stimulates him, drives him, provokes him. Mostly provokes, right now," she adds pointedly, and Jim blushes, hiding his face in his coffee cup. "But that's why he responds like he does."

"But why –"

"You're an idiot," she says candidly, sipping her tea. "You think he _wants_ to take an extra four hours each day going over your reports to make sure there's nothing in there that the 'Fleet brass could call you on the carpet over? We all know we're just being sent on milk runs right now because they're so short on ships and captains. _We_ all know you're perfectly capable, Captain; but the Admiralty is just a bunch of pompous bureaucrats using you as a pretty face for the propaganda posters. You make one wrong move and they'll throw you under the bus faster than you can blink. He's trying to have your back, Kirk. Granted, they'll toast marshmallows on Delta Vega before he'll tell you that, but he _is_ trying. As best he knows how."

Jim sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I had no idea he even tolerated me. I thought…"

"What, that he was just on the ship because of me? That he's waiting for the first chance he can to bail? Please." His comms chief scoffs, snorting into her drink. "I have no idea what kind of weird symbiotic hold you two have on each other but it's kind of cute, kind of creepy, and all kinds of unhealthily co-dependent."

He's about to ask another question, when Uhura's door entry chimes softly, and the door swishes open simultaneously, unlocking at the bio-signature of the person standing outside.

"Speak of the devil," Uhura murmurs, smiling at the puzzled Vulcan who halts two paces inside the door.

"Ears burning, Spock?" Jim inquires jovially, waving his coffee mug in greeting. "We were just talking about you."

"Indeed." The flat tone is accompanied by a look that could melt tritanium, which he pretends not to notice.

"Thanks for the tea, Lieutenant, and the conversation. But I won't intrude on you guys' evening." He rises from the chair, seeing Spock relax visibly as he does, and gathers up his sweater and data-padd.

"Night, Captain," she says quietly.

"Goodnight, Lieutenant. Uh, Mr. Spock?" he hesitates just in front of the Vulcan, who is staring him down with a clearly territorial glare.

"Yes, Captain?"

He proffers the data-padd to his First with an embarrassed clearing of the throat. "I, uh, really tried this time to make sure everything was accurate about the exploration of the planet this afternoon, but I would…appreciate your double checking me before I send it off. If you have the time. Commander."

Behind them, he hears Uhura's muffled snort into a pillow.

Spock blinks at him for a moment, obviously gauging his sincerity, before accepting the padd as the olive branch it is. "Would tomorrow morning be sufficient time for its return, sir?"

"If you promise to have breakfast with me, yes." He grins impertinently at his First's resigned expression. "I'll even have Scotty program vegan blueberry pancakes into the meal selector for you."

"That would be…acceptable."

Uhura's facepalming behind her boyfriend's back, which isn't helping his expression at all, so he beats a hasty retreat before he does something stupid like happy dance, because, hey – his First Officer doesn't really hate him after all, he just sucks at making friends.

Well, Jim always did like a challenge. And, as that particular Vulcan should know –

He's a cheater. Spock doesn't stand a chance.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: In this section, some bits drawn from the TOS episode Journey to Babel, as well as the canon reference to Vegan choriomeningitis. Anything you don't recognize didn’t happen in TOS.

**IV. His over-protectiveness, even if his girlfriend and captain can take care of themselves. Or at least his girlfriend can.**

"This could not possibly come at a worse time!"

A tired smile appears on the captain's lined face, as he patiently weathers the familiar storm of medical concern. "I doubt the warring factions on Babel took either of our opinions into account, Bones. And Starfleet Command definitely didn’t."

"So?"

"So put up and shut up, yeah?"

A crash of metal as scanners are thrown with more force than necessary back into their place in the charging cabinet; Ship's Stores and Requisition is going to have a field day with the replacements. Awesome. Jim's already gotten five memos from them this month about McCoy's loving care for his instruments, and he already is on thin ice with Lieutenant Kalov due to his record of tearing his shirts with such regularity.

"Jim, you're barely able to walk around for more than an hour without getting dizzy and your white cell count is still in the basement, you still have a fluctuating fever and don't try and tell me you're not hidin' a migraine right this minute, I saw your pupils when I turned the lights up.”

He widens his eyes on purpose, because he hadn’t noticed until now that the squinting was giving him away, but it’s obviously too late. Bones is in fine form with no indication of stopping.

“Vegan choriomeningitis is basically fatal to normal humanoids. _You're_ just lucky that superblood of Khan's gave you a boosted immune system, because you'd probably be _dead_ with your old one. You're in no condition to be entertaining a shipload of civilians on the way to some goddamn peace conference halfway across the quadrant!"

"He is certainly not going to do so singlehandedly, Doctor," a calm voice interrupts from behind them, and Jim looks up in incredulity, and a little annoyance.

"Says who?" He folds his arms, chin jutting defiantly in Spock's direction. The effect is somewhat mitigated by the fact that he's still in one of Bones's stupidly short-sleeved blue scrub sets and not his uniform, but it's the principle of the thing.

"Says me, and Spock, and Uhura, and everyone else on this ship who doesn't want to see you _relapse_ , you moron!" is the retort delivered from above his head as his very red-faced, very grumpy CMO adjusts a bio-monitor.

"I am perfectly able to perform my duties, Doctor," he can't help but snap at this point, glaring at both his subordinates just for good measure. After almost a week of being so sick he at first thought he was going to die, then wanting to die, he's more than ready to get back to being the captain, not Bones's latest guinea pig. However well-meaning, when his friend gets scared he gets ridiculously pissy, and Jim has obviously scared him well and good this time; McCoy has been prickly as a cactus the last forty-eight hours, enough that even Spock has steered well clear of Sickbay until this communique from Starfleet Command had come through this morning.

"I said I was releasing you to light duties, Jim – not _your_ definition of duties, and that was _before_ Starfleet turned us into this glorified taxicab!"

"While the doctor's outburst is characteristically melodramatic, Captain, his point is valid; you are well known for, what is the human term…overdoing it."

"I am not having this argument with either of you," he states calmly, deadly. He swings his feet over the side of the bio-bed and reaches for the gold uniform waiting for him on the chair beside it. "Starfleet obviously picked this ship for the Babel 'taxicab,' as you call it, Bones, because of its visibility and standing in the 'Fleet, and you know that whether we like it or not the command chain is part of that diplomatic image."

"He is correct, Doctor. The Admiralty is no doubt expecting him to make all necessary appearances."

McCoy scowls. "I thought you were on my side, Mr. Spock?"

Some of the fire has gone out of the doctor's eyes, as he well knows the painful reality of politics, as well as how stubborn Jim Kirk can be. Also, Spock jumps ship to the captain's side whenever it pleases him, which is about 95% of the time. (The other 5% is when Jim is winding him up just for the fun of it.)

"So I am, Doctor. Rest assured, I have no intention of permitting the captain to overextend himself in his diplomatic duties."

"Happy, Bones? I now have a Vulcan babysitter. _Huzzah_." His dramatic jazz hands and snark would have been more impressive if his dizzy spell hadn't sent him in a nosedive straight at said Vulcan babysitter's torso, but hey. He still has twelve hours before they pick up the first delegates; surely by then he'll be feeling a lot better than he does now?

* * *

Yeah, not so much.

The first evening aboard during such a voyage is usually the interspecist mingling event, usually a dinner with an open bar and buffet-style meal, an event none of the crew tend to really enjoy simply because it is a lot of diplomatic chit-chat and a lot more mediating cultural misunderstandings and everyone is always far too on edge to enjoy the rare non-replicated food and drink.

Jim has never been more grateful in his entire Starfleet career, as he is tonight for his brilliant Communications Chief; he makes a mental note to put a recommendation for outstanding performance in her file first thing in the morning. It's about time Starfleet thinks about promoting her to Lieutenant-Commander, anyway. Uhura is in her element tonight linguistically, but she is doing far more than just entertaining various species with small talk; she's zeroing in on and putting out small fires, working diplomatic magic he should be but simply doesn't have the energy to right now. It's honestly all he can do to keep standing, and that's due to the stim-shot he coaxed out of Bones before the meal started almost three long, dragging hours ago.

Spock has been hovering within earshot all evening, oddly in tandem with his girlfriend (if that's what their weird on-again-off-again relationship can be called) in the area of diplomacy. They're a study in perfection, Spock and Uhura. Fire and ice, two sides of a coin, and he's a little in awe of that; they really do complement each other perfectly and this ship just happens to be the beneficiary of it, him specifically tonight.

(If they ever have children? God help them all, because they will rule the _galaxy_.)

Now, Spock is in deep conversation with his father, as the primary ambassador in the Vulcan negotiating party, and they appear to be having a quite amicable discussion. Sarek has brought along two male aides and a female who appears to have no logical purpose to their group – therefore it's no great deduction to guess that she's probably going to be Sarek's new partner in 'repopulation endeavors.' She is quiet, solemn, cool but not rude, simply out of her element; what Jim assumes to be a typical Vulcan woman probably thrust into a world of politics she is not yet accustomed to. He's pleased to see that Spock appears to be conversing with her with none of his usual small tells of discomfort; Jim has been ready to step in and redirect if there were any indication of awkwardness developing.

He nods pleasantly and flashes a smile to a duo of Grai'itians, carefully avoiding their trailing tail-frills, and then skirts deftly around a Tellarite, hoping to avoid being pulled into the argument the loud male is having with a gesticulating Andorian. He moves closer to the drink table in hopes of finding some chilled water; maybe that will help him feel less flushed in this stiflingly hot room.

Unfortunately, Lady Luck has never been his biggest fan. From his periphery, he registers the argument escalating, and resists the urge to whimper; his head is spinning as it is, and he does _not_ feel like mediating between two species who have been known to doggedly argue for seven hours on end over things as foolish as the date the warp drive was invented, when the facts are easily checked via library data banks.

He drags the back of his hand over his perspiring forehead, yanks uncomfortably at his dress uniform collar, and turns wearily back toward the Tellarite – only to see his Communications Chief swoop in like an avenging angel and with a flash of a smile and quick burst of chatter interpose herself into the argument in fluid Tellari, mischievously guiding the argument into more friendly banter.

A wash of relief floods over him, admiration at his crew's skill and also their care for him – he knows she's doing this because he's not on his A-game – and he smiles, pulling again at the collar of his jacket. One disadvantage of these gatherings is that there's always some cold-blooded species which necessitates their keeping the room at a higher temperature than is really comfortable in these non-breathable dress uniforms, and he feels like he is being strangled in the unforgiving fabric. An eyelet hook gives way with a small pop, and he inhales slowly, hoping the oxygen will clear the encroaching fog away from his brain.

He is so tired of feeling…well, tired. Vegan choriomeningitis is one of the more deadly ailments in the galaxy, and it's not something you shake off in a matter of days. While he is no longer contagious, he is by no means firing on all thrusters. He just hopes this voyage to Babel goes off without a hitch, as there's no way he's going to be performing any active diplomatic magic if he doesn't start feeling less like he's going to throw up or pass out right here in the middle of the rec room, in front of a dozen different curious species. That would look _awesome_ for Starfleet's precious image.

He belatedly realizes that the room is starting to spin lazily around him, and so takes a reeling step backward to try and put his back against a nearby pillar – only to find that he's misjudged the distance. He has two seconds of slightly flailing panic before a strong hand in Science blues catches his arm and pulls him back to his feet, unsteady though they may be.

"Captain. Are you well?"

He swallows hard, wishing he could put up a better front and knowing it's probably useless; he can literally feel the blood draining from his face, and the room's starting to tilt again.

"No," he manages to grind out, blinking rapidly. "Trying not to pass out here, Spock. Find Bones?"

"The Doctor saw you begin to lose consciousness a moment ago, as I did – he is making his way across the room now."

"I need you to stay here and make sure none of these delegates kill each other tonight," he murmurs, as a hypospray depresses into his neck without a word of preamble. The nausea recedes, but the dizziness remains. Spock carefully relinquishes him to Bones's strong hands, ready to have his back like always.

His still fuzzy mind isn't quite sure whether to be offended or relieved that in all probability, no one will even notice he's gone the rest of the night, that's how good his people are at their jobs.

* * *

Well, most of the time they're good at them.

"Did I not specifically say make sure none of them killed each other?!" His incredulous voice carries down the corridor, loud enough to make Spock visibly wince at the assault on his eardrums.

"I can hardly be held responsible for the activities the delegates engaged in after the festivities were concluded, _sir_." Oh, the sass. Jim hides a smile, out of respect for the Vulcan delegation that is waiting patiently to be questioned a few meters away.

"This is not gonna look good for the 'Fleet if word gets out," McCoy mutters, as he gestures for the anti-grav gurney to take the poor dead Tellarite to Sickbay. "I'll call you if I find anything that might help figure out who killed the poor guy, Captain. I’ll have Scotty run a post-analysis on the food recycling systems too, make sure nothing shows up out of the ordinary."

Jim sighs, wishes he'd taken a headache pill with his breakfast. It's going to be a long morning.

The Vulcan delegation, supposedly the last group to converse with the belligerent Tellarite before the meal broke up last night, can give them no information as to who might have killed him. Naturally, Jim doesn't want to suspect them, and really he doesn't see how killing the guy is in any way logical (or what motive they’d have), but he has to question everyone. Spock heads to the Bridge to cover alpha shift during the investigation, but due to her grasp of language nuance, including that of body language, Jim asks Uhura to accompany him while he interrogates the other Babel delegates.

She helps him grill the Andorian who was arguing with the Tellarite earlier the previous evening, but he doesn't really act guilty. Jim then has another dizzy spell while in the Grai'itians' guest quarters, because _of_ _course_ he does, and nearly is sick all over the poor couple's couch, so his comms chief is kind enough to follow him back to his own cabin in case he decides to spectacularly pass out in the hallway or something. There, she helps him look over the security footage of the meeting room and analyze any body language that looks suspicious from any of last night’s delegates, plus any random bits of dialogue which were loud enough to be overheard by the low-fi cameras. By the time they decide to head to the bridge for the last part of alpha shift, they agree that they don't really have much of a lead on anyone who might have hated the Tellarite delegate enough to kill him. There's literally no motive to the crime here, that they can see.

Which is why it's a total and complete shock to both of them when they are leaving the captain's cabin and get jumped by a crazy Andorian with a wicked sharp knife.

Jim's very, very grateful he wasn't alone, because his reflexes are still very much not up to par, and he is sent headfirst into the nearby control panel before he even realizes what is happening. He vaguely hears something on the panel burst into static and blinks starbursts out of his vision, then is horrified to see Uhura pinned against the wall nearby, grappling furiously to keep a narrow blade away from her throat. He springs into action then, wrenching the Andorian off his lieutenant despite the fact he still can’t see straight, and concentrates on not getting stabbed in the next ten seconds while he dodges and feints, finally just tackling the guy with the only weapon he has left, desperation. They hit the wall and then the floor, where he rolls aside just in time to avoid a knife buried in his side and then dodges another wild swipe as the Andorian scrambles after him in a slithery, deadly move that there’s no way he’s avoiding –

A steel-toed boot comes out of thin air and neatly stomps down on the blue wrist, snapping the bones with a ruthless crunching noise that makes him want to throw up. The Andorian shrieks in pain and drops the knife from nerveless fingers, and without releasing the broken limb Uhura has his other arm pinned behind his back in a matter of seconds, a knee well-positioned to snap the would-be assassin’s neck if he moves wrong.

Jim drags himself to an upright position against the wall, breathing heavily through the pain of his throbbing skull, and only then realizes there's blood running down his sleeve.

Aw, seriously. Can't he catch a break? Kalov is going to kill him for having to replace another freaking shirt.

A squad of security personnel suddenly rounds the corner at a dead sprint, followed shortly by a very pissed-off Vulcan.

He beams up at Spock, whose face is thunderous in its fury as the Andorian is hauled to his feet, still whimpering. "Sooooo, pretty sure we found the murderer, Commander," he says innocently.

Uhura snorts, then surprises him with an actual giggle.

Spock's glare could freeze a volcano. "I left you alone for only two hours, Captain."

"It's not my fault!"

"It's really not, Spock," Uhura interjects, still grinning. She begins to fix her ponytail, glancing between the two of them curiously. "How'd you almost beat the Security team here all the way from the Bridge, anyway? I'm assuming the captain's hard head turned on the intra-comm when he hit the wall, but Security's a good three decks closer than the Bridge."

Spock's ears turn a peculiar shade of jade.

"Awwww, he was worried, Lieutenant."

"It was logical concern for the well-being of members of this crew, one of which I unfortunately am personally responsible for at the moment, according to Doctor McCoy."

"You were worried about _me_! That's so sweet, Spock."

One of the redshirts coughs awkwardly, hiding his face behind the Andorian’s shoulder. Spock looks about five seconds from nerve-pinching him into silence, the only thing probably stopping him being that Jim’s arm is still bleeding and it's starting to drip onto the deck now.

"That’s the fever talking. You should probably stop before you embarrass yourself."

"While somewhat disrespectfully stated, I concur with the lieutenant's assessment, Captain. Are you able to walk to Sickbay unassisted?"

"If you can tell me which of those hands you're holding out is the real one, Lieutenant, then yeah. Maybe." He squints up at it. Them. Whatever.

Spock closes his eyes in a gesture that fairly screams _Surak-give-me-patience-I-live-amongst-morons._

Jim scrambles to his feet with a little help, and after wavering for a moment manages to stay there. He pretends not to notice Spock's aborted move to catch him when it looks like he's going to crash and burn, and rubs his eyes hoping to clear them.

"Your girlfriend's a badass, you know that, Spock?"

"Affirmative."

Uhura rolls her eyes, and gives both of them a pat on the shoulder. "I'm going to go question the Andorian about what he’s doing on this ship, while he's still in pain and frightened," she says, with a smile that sends a shudder down Jim's spine. "You should probably have McCoy send a nurse down to set his wrist, though. Just give me twenty minutes.”

They both stare after her for a moment in silence.

"She's also scary as hell, Spock."

"Affirmative."


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for Beyond, if by some wild coincidence you haven't seen it yet.

**III. His touch-telepathic eavesdropping, even when Jim doesn't realize it's happening because he's kind of out of it at the time**

He's not sure which of them is more pale by the time they land – Spock from pain and blood loss, Bones from the realization that he just about crashed them into the pediatric tower trying to set them onto the hospital's hoverpad, or himself from sheer pain and injury added to the fact that it's only just now starting to sink in, what's happened in the last…how long has it been, since they left Yorktown last? Two days? Three? Four? When you haven't slept or eaten in that time, it's really hard to judge.

He firmly pulls himself out of the daze he's slipping dangerously into, with the aid of a lot of willpower and his Starfleet crisis training. There will be time to assimilate the loss – so much loss! – but for now, he has survivors to think about, to care for, and so he's steady enough on his feet to take Spock's weight as his First Officer's knees buckle for a moment after hitting artificial _terra firma._

"He's okay, give me thirty minutes in an OR to tidy up that patchwork inside him and he’ll need a week to replenish that rare blood we don't have on hand to transfuse him with, but he'll be back to normal in no time," Bones reassures him, in answer to his unspoken panic over Spock's limp head. They're both so used to seeing Vulcan invincibility that having to watch him be so close to death, so openly in pain, the last however many hours, has freaked them both out more than either wants to admit. "Simple outpatient surgery and a light healing trance, he'll be up and walking by this evening, if he's as stubborn as someone else I could mention."

Spock manages a half-hearted glare that is pathetic at best, but slowly regains his balance enough to let his arm drop from Jim's shoulders. And only just in time, because Jim's name is being called from behind them. Joy. He turns reluctantly to see a group of uniformed 'Base officers approaching them at a run, followed by a red-garbed security squad and then a medical team. Nice. Good to see Starfleet's order of priorities.

Exhaustion always has sort of shut off his brain-to-mouth filter; he probably shouldn't say much of anything unless he has to, if he wants to keep his commission.

If he still has one, after this debriefing.

"Captain Kirk, sir," and the foremost of the 'Base officers snaps off a crisp salute which he ignores, because seriously? _Formality_ right now? "You've been requested to report directly to the main 'Base headquarters for an immediate debriefing with Commodore Paris and an evaluation committee."

Surprise, surprise. Jim bites his tongue to prevent the sarcastic response (or its more profane counterparts) from leaving his lips, and only nods wearily. It's standard procedure, after all; he would have had to do the same after the debacle which was Khan trying to single-handedly set a precedent for Krall those years ago, except he'd conveniently been dead at the time.

"Now look here, boy, this man is injured and he's not goin' anywhere until I –"

"Bones," he interjects, a hand upraised to stop the biting tirade. "Enough."

The physician's eyes bore into his with undisguised worry, and it strikes him in that instant that Bones looks so much _older_ than he used to – perhaps they all do. He is almost afraid to look in the mirror, afraid that the events of the last few days will have added decades to him as well instead of just another year; what a birthday present this week has turned out to be.

"Jim – _Captain_ , you need medical attention, physical and mental, before you hit an official debriefing of this magnitude."

"The doctor is correct, Captain," Spock says softly from behind him.

"Unfortunately, we don't have that luxury." The young lieutenant sent to fetch him is looking more impatient, but more nervous, by the second. Jim sighs, carefully manipulates his shoulder – not dislocated like he'd thought at first when Spock grabbed him out of midair in that spectacularly awesome save. Such a major bullet dodged, he thinks he can make it through an official debriefing without passing out. Better to get it over with, than have the anxiety of it hanging over his head, and Security disturbing the Medical staff waiting for his discharge. "I'll be fine, gentlemen. Bones, make sure Spock gets operated on and figure out where Uhura and the rest of the crew ended up. See that they get medical attention and whatever else needed until I can contact everyone, yeah?"

"Jim, you need –"

"What I _need_ , Doctor," and the harsh interruption is a diamond shard through glass, a crack showing for the first time in the flawless façade of his control. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "What I need," he then amends quietly, "is to know at least two members of my crew are alive and going to stay that way." He lifts a hand in a helpless, aimless gesture, keeping his subordinates purposely at arm's length. "Please, just…go to Medical HQ and make sure that happens, Bones."

His friend's eyes glint with the tears none of them have had time to shed yet, and maybe never will, but he nods solemnly. Spock is strangely silent, following slowly behind the medical team that flutters around him like nervous white-coated bees.

"While I try to figure out how to explain to a board of 'Fleet 'Base authorities why two-thirds of my crew is never coming back," he adds bitterly under his breath as they turn to walk away.

He forgets about Spock's Vulcan hearing, and never sees the concerned look back his direction as he is escorted into the 'Base by the squad of security guards.

* * *

It isn't that they're accusing him of dereliction of duty or something (though he wouldn't be surprised if he's suspended until the salvage crew can locate the black boxes from the _Enterprise_ 's wreckage; this is a tragedy of epic proportions), but after nearly five hours of ruthless questioning and cross-examining, reviews of the visual and audio logs of everything Yorktown has their hands on at the moment, records checking of the last charted course of the _Franklin_ because no one actually believes Krall could be a former ‘Fleet officer at first…he's pretty much on his last nerve as well as the last reserves of strength – mental, emotional, and physical – that he has left to scrounge up from somewhere in his Starfleet training and deep space experience.

It's standard procedure; get the details, _all_ the horrible details, while they're still fresh in his mind, still too raw for prevarication or embellishment. And this starbase is the 'Fleet's equivalent of the _Titanic_ ; it was supposed to be impenetrable, the prize of their new frontier. It had almost just been obliterated in a matter of seconds, so the overreaction is understandable. But he gets the slightly bitter, uncomfortable feeling that most of the panel before him is far more concerned with that near-tragedy than with the fact that his entire world went down in flames, crashing and burning on Altamid and taking the lives of hundreds of innocents with it.

There's hell to pay for this one, no question – but he's just lived through a hell of his own, and he's still in it; can't they see that?

He folds his shaking hands on the table for what has to be the hundredth time, and swallows hard on a sudden surge of nausea as finalized reports – official, verified reports corroborated from Starfleet Medical and the survivors’ reports – at last start scrolling in across the huge viewscreens just above the briefing tables.

He hadn't seen the numbers until now, had been afraid to ask; he on purpose had kept his eyes on the road while on that motorcycle and not counted how many transporter trips of twenty it took to get his people out on Altamid, because he didn't want to know the death toll, he _couldn't_ know right then, it would emotionally compromise him beyond his ability to finish the mission.

But now? In bright, clear holographic numbers, ten feet from his face, the confirmed casualty toll from the _Enterprise_ – nearly three-quarters of his crew are dead. The horrified, startled hush that momentarily silences the room as the numbers scroll across the screens and their individual PADDs is more deafening than their music-blaring battle in space had been, an accusatory death-scream that will sound in his nightmares for weeks.

And then, as is standard for these reports, the accompanying names and pictures start scrolling.

Captain or not, responsibility or not, he's about to just run from the room because he literally can't watch these faces scroll past any longer - but thankfully, Commodore Paris is not insensitive, and with a wave of her hand pauses the death toll, fixing him with an understanding eye as he struggles to control his breathing.

"We are nearly finished here, Captain Kirk," she says, not unkindly.

The pneumatic hiss of automatic doors behind them punctuates the sentence, and a voice breaks in, causing his shoulders to relax immediately and tears to spring to his eyes from sheer relief and adrenaline drain.

"With respect, Commodore, I believe you _are_ finished," his first officer says icily, a thread of tightly-controlled anger slicing through the startled silence that greets his entrance to the room.

Paris blinks at him, unfazed, and looks faintly amused. "Commander Spock, thank you for joining us. We had heard your injuries in this unfortunate affair were at one point life-threatening."

"They were, Commodore. Fortunately, I have received all necessary medical attention and am functioning at full capacity once again. A courtesy which you have denied Captain Kirk, I am given to understand?" The clear disdain in Spock's voice is enough to make at least three of the junior officers in the room cringe.

Paris has the grace to look chastened. "Captain Kirk, you told us your injuries were not in need of immediate attention."

"So I did, Commodore," he sighs, rubbing his temples with both hands. "I don't believe in delaying the inevitable, and I’m as eager as you to get this over with. Granted, had I known I would still be sitting here five hours later, I probably would have had this fractured eye socket seen to at least."

Spock's hand on the back of his chair tightens enough that he can hear metal bending slowly. He hides a grin, and the pressure in his chest lightens just a fraction.

"We have only a few more questions for you, Captain Kirk," Paris says quickly.

"And they may be submitted in writing to be answered at the captain's leisure," Spock speaks over his head, before his open mouth can form the words. "Or must I cite regulation to such a group of distinguished Starfleet officials, regarding the post-crisis care and handling of Starfleet officers bearing battle injuries and most likely suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder? Surely, such a spotless record as Yorktown's would not wish such an… _unfavorable_ , report to make its way back to Starfleet Headquarters."

Jim nearly swallows his tongue. "Uh, Spock." He clears his throat, half-turns to look up at his First, who is…wow, yeah, Spock is majorly pissed. "Commander, a moment."

Spock's eyebrow clearly says that is, literally, all he’s going to get.

"Commodore, I do have what's left of my crew complement to see to. Many of them had no long-term lodgings set up on Yorktown when we docked before, and I must contact their families or friends, to see that they have the companionship they need after this," he says quietly. "Not to mention the therapy," he adds, a slightly bitter afterthought.

Paris eyes him, and then glances up at the impassive figure standing protectively at his shoulder. Finally she smiles. "You are a good man, and an even better captain, Kirk. We have already seen to lodgings for your remaining crew; they should already have been shown to their quarters here in Yorktown by my own aides, but you may inspect them to your satisfaction if you wish. They are yours as long as your people wish to stay, or until re-postings are assigned, and they are all in the same building. I thought you might prefer this."

He blows out a measured breath, relieved that one thing at least is off his plate. Now, if he could just erase the image of those death toll pictures…

"Commander Spock," Paris adds, looking up at his First.

"Commodore." Spock's tone is still decidedly frosty.

"I have forwarded the coordinates of Captain Kirk's quarters to both of your personal PADDs; please accept my apologies, and ensure he receives medical attention."

He thinks he should probably be indignant that he isn't being addressed personally, but to be honest he's starting to think that he's going into shock, because he's getting really cold and the room is starting to gray out at the edges and he would be perfectly happy just falling over right here and crashing on the floor, thanks.

"You have my appreciation, Commodore." A hand tugs at his elbow, and he stands, feeling twenty years older than he really is. "Captain?"

"Coming," he mutters, and glances up one more time at the screen – frozen on a picture of a smiling young Engineer from Betazed, whom he met last year during the Lower Decks poker tournament.

He swallows down a flare of nausea, and follows Spock into the corridor.

* * *

"Thank you for the timely rescue, Mr. Spock," he sighs, once they are safely inside the turbolift, away from curious eyes and the furtive whispers that follow them around every corner.

"I was…disturbed, to discover upon being released from medical that you were still in debriefing, nearly six hours after the fact. That is inexcusable negligence on the part of the 'Base officials." Spock's adorably perturbed, and he smiles wearily up at his First.

"Is Bones okay?"

"Doctor McCoy is perfectly functional but exhausted. Nyota volunteered to ensure he made it to his quarters, and ordered me to come find you and do the same. She seemed to think that I would be more diplomatic in convincing the officials to end the debriefing than she or Mr. Scott would, considering that Commander Scott is at present in his quarters with several of the Engineering crewmen, quite inebriated."

Jim chokes on a laugh that sounds horrifyingly like a sob, and raises shaking hands to his eyes. "God, Spock. Did you see that death toll?" he gasps, trying to keep his breathing steady. "How – should I have had them abandon ship earlier? Ditched the saucer section immediately? What could I have done?"

"You made the most informed command decisions you could, under the circumstances – and in doing so, you turned certain death into a fighting chance for the remaining one hundred seventeen crewmen, Captain," Spock says quietly. "Attempting to second-guess your decisions now accomplishes nothing but to further emotionally distress yourself."

"Understatement of the century," he whispers, leaning one arm on the side of the lift and resting his head on it for a moment. "What are we going to do, Spock? How do we move on after this?"

The lift pings, then speaks a cheerful announcement as the doors open onto the floor of the building which houses their guest quarters.

He looks up, to see Uhura waiting on them, leaning against the wall outside the lift. She's changed from her soiled uniform, dressed now in jeans and a cheesy purple _Yorktown_ hoodie that's obviously come from the gift shop downstairs; they've no doubt been given orders by the Base to charge all crew purchases to Starfleet. Her dark eyes flick between them with concern.

"You look like hell, Captain," she says bluntly.

Jim snorts a damp laugh. "I really don't want to spend the night in a Medical facility. Thanks for bringing me straight here, by the way, Spock. You know me too well."

"Indeed. Enough to know that you would simply make your escape attempt tonight and alarm the entire recovery ward who are not accustomed to your methods as Dr. McCoy is."

Slim, gentle fingers are on his face, tilting his swollen eye toward the light. "I don't want to wake the poor guy up, he just fell asleep, but that eye has got to be set tonight. You're going to need to let me call Nurse Bodine or – " Her eyes widen suddenly. "I…I don't even know who else survived, Captain, I was so focused on trying to escape on Altamid I didn't really pay attention to who all was there other than the Alpha bridge crew and my Communications people. Have you found out yet, were there other survivors that the drones missed?"

"They already sent back a ship to check, but based on what I saw before we hit the atmosphere, no, the casualty toll is confirmed," he says hoarsely, and hands over the padd still grasped loosely in shaking hands. Then his face blanches suddenly, as a thought hits him. "I…oh my God, Spock, how am I going to write five hundred-odd condolence letters?"

Uhura inhales sharply, and looks up at Spock, worry twisting her features.

"That is a subject for another day, sir." Spock's voice is firm, as is his hand, propelling him toward his quarters down the hall. "Furthermore, your crew, both alive and deceased, require nothing more at this time than for you to…for once, Captain, think of yourself."

That's the last straw, and he really hates that this supposedly unemotional alien knows exactly what buttons to push to make him come undone faster than anyone he's ever met – because it's that one sentiment that pretty much shoves him over the edge into the meltdown he's been firmly locking away ever since he watched his beautiful ship plunge into the broken ground of Altamid. He was already cracking, unseen and unheard, before this happened and now? He needs to get inside before he actually does fall apart.

It takes five attempts before the retinal scan on his apartment door will allow them entrance, because apparently tears distort the scans. Who knew.

It's a beautifully decorated studio that shows signs of being lived in recently, not too staged and empty; obviously they booted someone fairly high up in the Starbase's hierarchy to give him space. He hopes he didn't put anyone out too much, but he's grateful the place feels a little more like a home, less like a museum.

"Spock, I'm going to go get McCoy," he hears Uhura say softly as they stumble more than walk through the narrow vestibule.

He starts to voice a protest, because no way in hell does Bones need to babysit him instead of getting some well-deserved rest, but she's way quicker than his exhausted reflexes at this point and the door's already shutting.

From somewhere he dredges up some tiny reserve of self-control, because Spock is still a touch-telepath and downloading what Jim is feeling is not going to help his own recovery in any way. There'll be a time and place for a total breakdown, but it isn't here, not in front of anyone.

"I didn't even ask you, Spock – you okay? McCoy get your surgery all squared away?"

"I am functional, Captain, and will be back to full duty within the week." Spock looks faintly amused. "You, on the other hand, have yet to have your injuries seen to. I would suggest you allow Doctor McCoy to heal the worst of said injuries and then attempt to sleep, as I am aware you have not for at least forty-eight hours."

"Stalker," he chuckles, patting the Vulcan on the arm as he passes, before he finally collapses into an armchair. He's too tired to even check and see if anyone bothered to replicate him pajamas or spare clothing; he could just sleep in what he has right now, except it reeks of death and failure. Also, he really doesn’t care at the moment if he falls asleep and just doesn’t wake up again, and he knows better than to be alone when he's in that headspace.

Spock's eyebrow rises, but he pointedly does not deny the accusation. Jim closes his eyes, only opening them after a moment when Spock breaks the silence.

"You also are not as adept at shielding your mental and emotional state as you believe yourself to be, sir," he says quietly.

He should have known better than to try to hide anything from this particular nosy half-Vulcan.

"Don't think I wouldn't appreciate the irony, Commander, but are you saying I should be relieved of duty due to emotional compromise?"

"Negative, Captain. I believe we all are, to some extent at least, in that condition after recent events. I merely meant to say…that is…"

Jim wants to take pity on the poor guy, but he really has no idea where Spock's trying to go with this.

"You do not have to pretend in front of me, Jim," his First finally articulates hesitantly, as if uncertain of how the sentiment will be received.

It slams into him just then like a freighter-load of duochromium, that Bones had said something on Altamid about Spock evac-ing them from C Deck literally seconds before it blew out from decompressurization. Ten seconds' slower reflexes, just _ten seconds_ , and he would have lost both of them, and never even knew it probably until he just couldn't find them on the planet, or until their pictures scrolled across his screen an hour ago.

He's really thankful for those reflexes now, because Spock's a fast man with a trash receptacle; somehow he doesn't think whoever's apartment he's borrowing would appreciate him being sick all over their expensive Katarran rugs.

Above the ringing in his ears, he hears the door open behind them, and a muttered Terran profanity that isn't from a female voice, followed shortly by a hypospray depressing into his shoulder with far more gentleness than he's accustomed to.

"Breathe, Jim." Strong fingers on the back of his neck, grounding him from the panic that's only been driven back by the very pressing need for oxygen in a chest that feels like the actual weight of his broken ship is sitting on it. "That's it. Jesus, kid, why didn't you comm me as soon as the idiots-that-be let you go?"

"I'm good, Bones, I'm good. Thanks." He clears his throat, scrubs a shaking hand over his eyes. He is the _captain_ , damn it, he will _not_ break down in front of his crew, even if it's these three, his inner circle. They all have the right to deal in their own way, without having to deal with him on top of everything else.

It only then occurs to him.

He _isn't_ a captain, not anymore. You have to have a ship, to be a captain.

Well then, he's allowed to feel like he would rather have gone down with the _Enterprise_ than have to deal with the world right now, isn't he?

"Captain!"

"Damn it Jim! Spock, help me!"

That's clear panic in Bones's voice, sharp-edged and brittle like broken glass. He tries to force his eyes back open; when did they close, anyway?

"Doctor." Spock's voice, tight with tension, and those have to be his fingers, they're always cold as ice.

A hand on his head, turning his face gently. "Jim, look at me. Uh-uh, keep your eyes open. Hey!" A slap to the face startles him into opening them again, fluttering with annoyed weariness. "That's it. You're going into shock, Jim. I need you to try and stay awake, okay?"

He can't help but laugh almost hysterically, because he goes into shock _now_? Seriously?

"Laugh about it, get pissed about it, I don't care, just stay awake. Your readings are all over the freaking charts, I'm gonna kill someone on the 'Base council for not examining you before letting you go into that debriefing..."

The furious rant is punctuated by what can only be a tri-ox hypospray into his neck, which actually seems to bring a little clarity and a lot less hysteria. Certainly the gray haze recedes a bit from his vision, enough that he realizes he's somehow lying down now, his head practically in Bones's lap and his legs propped up on a couple cushions at the other end of the couch. Uhura is perched in an armchair nearby, worrying at one of the drawstrings of her hoodie, and Spock…

"Are you holding my hand?"

Spock drops it like a hot potato and slides gracefully off the couch edge to sit on the floor instead, eliciting a giggle from Uhura and what looks from his upside-down vantage point to be an eyeroll from McCoy.

He smiles, too weary to do anything else, and reaches over blindly to pat his now thoroughly embarrassed First on the shoulder.

A medical tricorder whirrs over his head. "Well, your readings are stabilizing now. Still scaring me, but at least they're better than they were a few minutes ago. Give a man a heart attack, why don't you. Y'can't have your meltdown when the damn tragedy happens like a normal person, you have to Be The Almighty Captain and wait until you know nobody's gonna need you for a few hours before you crash on us?"

"Sorry, Bones." For so much more than this, God help them.

"Stop apologizin'. For this and everything else, Jim." He looks up into knowing eyes, and blinks back tears not for the first time tonight. Of course, that could also be from the fact that even with a pain-killing hypo, a bone-knitter is still one of the worst instruments of torture medical science has invented, especially on such a sensitive area as the face.

"Is he good to get some sleep, McCoy?" Uhura gracefully rescues him from an embarrassing display that he still isn't ready to have publicly.

"At this point, yeah. His blood pressure's coming back up, he's not spacing on us anymore. I'll stay for an hour or so and watch him after I'm done here, make sure he eats something before I leave."

Immediately, he can't help but panic at the knowledge that in less than two hours he'll be left by himself in here, all alone with his nightmares and the ghosts of five hundred crewmen. He would literally rather be anywhere else, just as long as there are people somewhere within eyesight – people who are living and breathing and just _there_.

Spock speaks up quietly from his place on the floor. "I believe the entirety of the crew, or at least those who do not have other plans for the evening, would benefit emotionally and mentally from…what is the human term for a gathering of companions during the hours traditionally reserved for sleep? A _slumber party_?"

Half-asleep at this point from exhaustion, Uhura snorts with laughter. "Where did you even hear that term, Spock? Definitely not from me."

Jim can't see from his position, but something in Spock's expression shuts her up with alarming rapidity, because her confusion fades into something more like tolerant fondness. "What the hell. Let's do it. Leonard?"

McCoy is looking at them all like they've lost their minds, but he throws his hands in the air with a resigned " _whatever, but I'm not braidin' anybody's hair_ " which is, from him, a ringing endorsement.

And if Jim can't quite find it in himself to let go of Spock or give Bones back his personal space for a while yet, well.

Something tells him they don't exactly mind it, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: TOS enthusiasts know that the crew complement of the TOS Enterprise was only a little over 420 people, give or take a few at any given time; however, it's obvious in the AOS movies that the Rebooted Enterprise is a significantly larger ship, evidenced by the fact that its Bridge crew is much larger, its Engineering section is much larger, etc. It's obvious from footage of the ship itself that it's a much bigger ship, and to me it looks at least double the size and double the crew count. And, unfortunately, Beyond’s Altamid evacuation didn’t appear to have enough beam-out sequences to indicate a large number of survivors so that's the headcanon I've always gone with.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: This section, blatant Spock/Uhura, but I still consider everything I write firmly on the gen side. I'm not the biggest fan myself of their relationship, but I believe in being true to canon, and in at least playing nicely in the sandbox someone else created.

**II. His vocabulary, even when it means Jim has to help Spock re-write his wedding vows eight times before they stop sounding like a Vulcan textbook on diplomatic relations**

"Uhura is going to kill me," is his first coherent thought (which he's pretty sure he also mumbled out loud) when he wakes up, and that's ironic enough given that he's not the one marrying her.

"No, but you came close enough to scare the bejesus out of the entire landing party," a voice, familiar in its gruff concern by now, is at its usual place near his right side. He ought to have his name engraved in solid latinum on this bio-bed, as often as he's been in it over the years.

The whirr of a med-scanner buzzes close to his ear like an annoying medical insect, wielded by his ever-grumpier Chief Medical Officer. After two five-year missions and well into their third, Bones deserves more stripes than his sleeves show, after all this time dealing with the weirdness which is their lives. Given the amount of hazard pay he's been entitled to for years and never drawn from Starfleet, he could retire by now. Fortunately for them, he's still here, faithfully snapping people's heads off with loving care for as long as Jim can convince him he's the best CMO in the 'Fleet.

But now, Jim is actually drawing a blank on this mission, what was supposed to be a milk run on a planet known for their positively _chirpy_ inhabitants, little ferret-like aliens so disgustingly good-natured he hadn't even bothered to arm his Security contingent.

"What did I screw up this time?" He is legit confused, because according to what he remembers before the black hole in his brain, the First Contact was going spectacularly. Now, though, his head feels like it's made of reinforced duraplas, he can barely move it on his neck; and his brain is, well, see above-mentioned black hole.

"For once, nothing, Captain," McCoy replies with a half-amused eyeroll. "You were allergic to the ceremonial tea, apparently. Murphy's Law."

"Not again."

"Yeah, again. Seriously, you'd think that superblood would've eradicated those random allergies years ago, but y'always have to be the special snowflake, Jim."

"That's so stupid – whoever heard of being allergic to a freaking _beverage_?"

"There's more people than you'd think who are allergic to Rigellian spiced cider, though that's due to the reaction of spices with the ale – but for you: the ceremonial tea had some local berry in it for flavoring, which none of us knew beforehand. And probably wouldn't have had another thought about even if we did know, it's not similar in composition to any Terran fruit which is a common allergen to humanoids." The doctor sighs with resignation. "I've added the info to your stupidly extensive medical file, though I doubt it'll ever crop up again outside this star system. You're gonna feel like a house fell on you for another few hours but you should be back on your feet in time for the rehearsal tonight."

Groaning, he struggles to a semi-sitting position. "I promised Chekov I would help him decorate the rec room, Bones. Uhura will kill us all if he's allowed free reign in there. You saw Sulu's birthday party last winter cycle; remember the glitter disaster?"

" _Remember_ it, I was pickin' it off your precious chair up there for _weeks_ afterwards."

"Exactly. So can't you give me a stimulant or something to get me back on my feet?"

Before McCoy can explain just why he is _not_ going to do that, last year's Purple Sparkles of Doom notwithstanding, the doors to Sickbay open abruptly and a blue blur darts inside, almost clipping the sliding mechanisms in his haste. Their slightly flushed First Officer then halts, looking sheepish.

Two pairs of eyes blink at him in startled silence.

 _"Spock! You are not getting out of this!"_ A female screech – there is no other word for it – resounds down the hall outside, loud enough that a nurse pokes his head out of McCoy's office to make sure everything is under control. Spock closes his eyes for a moment and then turns a hopeful look toward his two humans.

McCoy is obviously fighting back laughter. "Gettin' no help from me, Commander, I've already crossed the woman once this week. I'd like to live to see our next mission, thank you."

"What did you do this time?" Jim asks incredulously, as Uhura's rant continues, gaining both volume and momentum as she stalks down the hall. "It's less than twenty-four hours away, for gods' sake. Suck it up and do whatever she wants, Spock."

"She wants me to write my own wedding vows, Captain."

"So?"

Spock's helpless gesture looks hilariously like robot jazz-hands. "Sir, I am a _Vulcan_. No matter the content or intention behind them, they will not be worded in such a manner that will satisfy her emotional requirements. The attempt will be an exercise in futility."

"Well, you'd better make the attempt anyway, unless you want to spend the first week of your marriage sleepin' alone," McCoy observes, as the doors open to admit Spock's fireball of a fiancée. "Hope you don't have plans for contributing to the 'repopulation efforts' on New Vulcan any time soon."

"I don't care if they aren't a Vulcan tradition, you will write them and you will _read_ them and – Captain! How are you feeling?"

Jim gives a weak wave (and way overdoes the pathetic cough) toward his furious comms officer. Her instant switch of focus to him gets a devoutly grateful glance from Spock, who starts edging out of the closing doors while Uhura's attention is otherwise occupied at Jim's bedside.

"Don't. You. Dare," she hisses through clenched teeth, without looking away from the bio-bed.

Spock looks as if he's actually debating the physical danger to his person if he makes a run for it.

Jim reaches out and grasps her hand. "Uhura. Look at me. You need to chill."

She jerks away, ponytail swinging in perfect accompaniment to her flashing eyes. "I do not need to chill!"

"You do. You're being a bitchy bride," he says bluntly. "And the Lead Communications Officer in the Fleet – _my_ Communications Officer – is better than that."

Spock's eyebrows have long since vanished into his hairline at what he obviously sees as Jim's death wish.

Uhura glares at him for a moment as if trying to set his pillow on fire. He returns the look, fighting fire _with_ fire in a familiar dance they both know too well at this point.

"You know I'm right, Nyota. Chekov won't even step foot on Deck Five right now because he's scared he's going to run into you coming out of Spock's cabin, and your entire Comms staff has been down here at some point this week for headache pills. It stops, now. I will make sure Spock writes you vows that don't sound like he swallowed a pamphlet on Vulcan bonding, and you will take the rest of your shift off, go to your cabin, and calm the hell down. That's an order."

His comms chief stares at him for a second before putting both hands on the edge of his bed and leaning slightly on them, head hanging with a release of tension. After a moment she breaks into a quiet laugh. "Sending me to my room to think about my behavior, Captain?"

"You would rather I place you on report for making a scene in the corridors and being disrespectful to a commanding officer, since you _both_ promised me you wouldn't allow your relationship to interfere with the workings of this ship if you stayed on for a third mission?"

"Captain," Spock remonstrates, but subsides when Uhura raises a hand, shaking her head.

"He's right, Spock. I'm sorry," she says simply, without any extra excuses that would annoy a Vulcan. "You've been exceedingly patient with me regarding the compromises of this marriage, and I have taken advantage of that."

"You have been under an immense strain, Nyota. Please do not –"

"Stop making excuses for my being a Bridezilla, Spock. I swore I wasn't going to be like that, and I have been, pressure from the ‘Fleet notwithstanding. The captain's just braver about calling me out on it than you have been." Jim grins cheekily at her, although they both acknowledge with a mutual look that his veiled warning earlier was quite serious; they get deeper into uncharted space every day, and he cannot afford to have two crucial links in his command chain at anything other than their combined best.

"You have my word, Captain, it won't happen again. Feel better, Jim." He smiles, pats her hand without another word as she releases the edge of his bed.

"I would appreciate you at least considering writing them, Spock. It would mean a lot to me," she adds, brushing two fingers gently over his sleeve as she leaves, in a much less chaotic manner than her arrival had been.

McCoy blinks after her exit, speechless in the silence that falls. Finally, he shakes his head in something like awe. "You're _crazy_ , Jim."

"I figured she wouldn't come after a guy in a hospital bed," he says with a crooked grin. "Now, pull up a chair, Commander."

"Sir?"

"You didn't really think I was going to let you leave without helping you write some kickass wedding vows, did you?"

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, Dr. McCoy shoots an unseen glare at his closed office door and is forced to turn on a static blanket around the room to muffle the increasingly frustrated voices which resound through the captain's recovery ward. Honestly, it's a wonder those two haven't either killed each other or somehow worked out a bizarre three-way marriage by now, the way they go at it sometimes. They're going to literally drive him to drink right here and now if they don't get it together in the next hour, and if they do they are _so_ not invited to join him.

Also, why the hell isn't his office more noiseproof? This flying tin can has been refitted three times since her construction right before their second mission. They have a ridiculously luxurious and totally unnecessary _holodeck_ , but they can't afford some decent insulation in his office walls?

"You are being purposefully obtuse here, Spock!" Uh-oh, Jim actually sounds genuinely annoyed, so either his meds are wearing off (very likely, his metabolism has been crazy fast ever since The Khan Incident) or Spock is really being a pain.

"On the contrary, Captain; you are refusing to acknowledge that this format is perfectly acceptable."

"Acceptable? You sound like you're promising to adopt a gerbil, not marry the woman you love!"

"The base principles are the same; the extraneous wording is a human construct solely for the sake of heaping poetry upon something which defies logical explanation."

"You are so _full_ of it, I can't even –" A long, drawn-out huff of breath, which means the captain is actually physically reigning himself in. "Look, I am not going to sit here and try to provoke an emotional response out of you when we both know you _do_ feel, you just suck at showing it. Or saying it. Or even acknowledging it. Or – huh. Well, I guess I _can_ still provoke you, even after all this time? You do know you don't scare me anymore, right?"

Something snaps loudly; McCoy hopes it was a stylus and not Jim's arm or something. He’s not going to bother checking unless someone yells in pain, at this point.

"Captain." The title might as well have been _Idiot_ , for all the lack of respect it clearly carries. "Public declarations of emotion, even affection, are simply _not done_ , in Vulcan culture."

"I'm _aware_ of that, and no one said you had to write her a love song, Spock. But you are marrying a human. We've put together a pretty freaking awesome half-human, half-Vulcan ceremony, and this is the _one_ human element she actually insisted on. She's agreed to wear traditional Vulcan ceremonial wear, for pity's sake Spock, not a wedding dress – do you know what a compromise that is for most Terran women?"

"I am aware." Much more subdued. "She has been most accommodating to the demands of my clan and of Starfleet."

"You are writing the damn vows. And you are going to rewrite them until I think they're good enough."

"I do not…it simply…there are no Standard words that are sufficient, Captain."

"Who said they had to be Standard, Spock? You're marrying someone who can speak over seventy-eight different languages, and that doesn't include dialects. _Use_ them. She'll love you more for it."

"…I had not considered that idea."

"And remember, if you use languages only she will understand, then no one else will know if you're making an 'emotional declaration.' Now will they?"

"…You may have a point."

"I have a _great_ point. And I promise you, she'll be happy with it."

"You have an unfortunate habit of generating such rash promises, Captain."

"A perfect match for your equally unfortunate habit of believing them, Commander."

"As you say, sir."

"Now get to work."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Jim's glad they have a rehearsal that night, because he knows Uhura would kill him if she ended up crying on her actual wedding day; this way, she gets it out of her system well beforehand.

"…I did not intend to produce that response," is Spock's slightly doleful interjection, as he finishes reading the six lines of carefully scripted ancient Cardassian, which have apparently set off his fiancee's waterworks to a level Jim has never seen, in the fifteen years they've been in deep space.

"I did," he chirps with a grin from his place between them, and hands her a disposawipe.

She snorts, a distinctly congested and embarrassing honk in the stillness of the ship’s chapel, to which he can't help but snicker, setting off the rest of the wedding party in a slightly nervous chain reaction. Spock's eyebrows travel upward slowly – but now he looks slightly less like he's going to pass out any minute, which had been Jim's next immediate goal. For someone who took almost fifteen years to finally make up his mind that it wouldn't be sacrilege to actually marry a human, Spock was looking almost humanly nervous there for a minute before he'd buried his face in his data-padd.

It was freaking adorable.

"Think you can top that, Lieutenant-Commander?" Jim inquires of his comms chief with a grin.

He almost regrets asking so flippantly, when she takes Spock's hands and rattles off a flawless string of Vulcan that at first makes his First Officer's eyes go so wide they look like they're about to fall out of his head, then blink suspiciously until she's finished. Jim's Vulcan is colloquial at best, though it's certainly improved over the years, and from the little he can understand it seems to be very formally phrased. His guess is, she looked up some very ancient bonding rituals, ones that possibly had been lost or forgotten with the planet so many years ago, and had decided to honor his deceased culture this way.

He can hear sniffles from off to his left – Chekov, probably, the kid has been sappy all week, and he's not even drunk yet – when she's done, and he clears his throat a little thickly himself.

To think that at one point he wanted to give this up…what a fool he had been, to think he could ever walk away.

Spock and Uhura are both looking at him expectantly now, and he brings himself back to the present. Right; ceremony, officiating. Captain business now, reflection later.

"Soooo, by the power vested in me by the United Federation of Planets, Starfleet Command, the New Vulcan High Council, and because I threatened to demote Spock to the _Excelsior_ if he didn't let me officiate, I now pronounce you –"

"Is he serious?"

" _Nyet_ , surely not…"

"Wife and husband, because we all know who wears the uniform pants in this bonding."

His grin lights up the room, and despite Uhura's eyeroll he can see that she's trying not to smile back at him. Spock looks like he can't decide whether to outright human-smile or fall back on old times and strangle him over the nearest console.

Tomorrow, he'll give them the proper interspecies wedding they deserve, since there will be Vulcan in-laws in the room, and the ceremony itself will be publicized on Starfleet broadcast networks – there's no getting around that, not after so many years of becoming such widely recognized public figures.

But for tonight? Tonight is for family, and while theirs is a weirdly dysfunctional one, he loves it with all his heart.

He rubs his hands dramatically, grinning as he steps back with an appropriately grand gesture. "All _right_ , people, who's ready to see a three-quarter human, one-quarter Vulcan kiss?"

"Oh, my God." Uhura hides her face in both hands. From between her fingers, she continues with a stifled whimper. "Why, exactly, did you tell him he could officiate?"

Spock looks vaguely mortified. "He was…most persuasive."

Uhura snorts inelegantly. "He batted those baby blues, and you caved. Sucker."

"He _is_ the logical choice, being already legally ordained to perform such ceremonies aboard a Federation vessel –"

"Spock, just shut up and kiss me before he starts a running commentary."


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Spoilers for some plot points of Generations, although no knowledge of the movie is necessary to understand this section - and for those of you who are worried, NO CHARACTER DEATH. We've been there, done that enough times, people. Enjoy.

**I. His eidetic memory, even when it says to do things that are completely illogical**

"You're joking, right."

"Vulcans –"

"Do not joke, yes I know, you've said it a thousand times – but you can't be serious!" His former First sighs patiently, looking all _too_ serious, and he blinks in disbelief. "You _are_! Spock, they are _counting_ on us to be there!"

"I am aware."

"We promised them months ago. Cleared our schedules months ago, and that wasn't easy, at least for me."

Spock looks slightly peeved, which for him means he's majorly pissed off. "Contrary to your beliefs, Admiral, I do have multiple duties on New Vulcan and in a diplomatic capacity which are of as high priority to the Federation as any such you might have planetside in the Academy."

Jim holds both hands up in apology. "That's not what I meant, and you know it. I haven't seen you in weeks, Spock; cut me a little slack on my Vulcan-speak. Surely you know by now I respect your work more than that."

Spock's eyebrows draw down in a frown, though he does relax from his previously somewhat confrontational posture. They are both a little out of practice at this, drifting apart as they have in the last few months. Video communiques never have been their favorite form of communication (Spock dislikes the subspace transmission delay, and Jim has the attention span of a goldfish, by his own admission), and so the recent, extensive work Spock has done on New Vulcan, helping with the tech in the new wing of the Science Academy and mentoring a half-dozen aspiring young 'Fleet scientists, has done them no favors.

"I apologize, Admiral."

"I thought apologies were illogical?" Jim leans back on the bench, having been momentarily distracted by a figure he hopes is not another idiot journalist, approaching through the near-deserted Academy grounds. He looks back inquiringly. "You must really be upset about this."

"I am not upset. I merely am…ill at ease."

"For you, that's upset." The figure is easily recognizable now; maybe McCoy will be able to talk some sense into Spock, or at least make some sense out of Spock's particular brand of crazy right now. "Bones." He receives a half-asleep nod of acknowledgement in response.

"Good morning, Admiral."

"Y'can still call me _doctor_ , Spock. Glad to see you got in okay. How's Sarek?"

"Sarek is quite well; he appears to have entirely recovered from your cardiac surgery despite any reservations either of us possessed as to your abilities."

"Love you too, Spock. Jim, tell me you are not drinkin' that entire thing?" A bony finger points accusatorily at his extra-large hot chocolate cup, courtesy of the Academy's west wing coffee shop. Perks of being the most famous starship captain in recent Starfleet history; he can pretty much weasel whatever he wants out of these starstruck cadets and not pay for it (not that he abuses that privilege, except when San Fran is chilly in the fall morning and he's going to have to sit outside and listen to Spock and Bones go at it for an hour).

Now, his hands curl protectively around the domed lid, guarding the whipped cream and sprinkles from possible intervention. "Uh, hello, what exactly do you think is in that precious 'sweet tea' your people drink? This can't possibly be any worse for you."

"Yeah, but I'm not sitting on my ass six hours a day grading papers and reprogramming computer simulations in-between teaching classes." McCoy's crooked grin is pure evil. "Told you, you'd lose that crazy fast metabolism someday."

"I hate you so much."

"No you don't."

" _Gentlemen_ ," Spock remonstrates severely, and immediately the atmosphere plummets once again. He's a real joy this morning, Jim thinks with a bit of vindictiveness which he's instantly ashamed of. Separation has never been good for them; he needs closeness, constant companionship, to be able to really show people how much he cares. Distance, physically and emotionally, is a coping mechanism – one he falls back on far too easily.

"The hell's wrong with you, sunshine?"

"Doctor, I have no time nor desire to engage in verbal repartee with you this morning."

"Well, excuuuuse me." McCoy's eyeroll can probably be heard across campus, and Jim can already feel the migraine coming on. "What's wrong with him, Jim?"

"He says we need to cancel our attendance on the maiden voyage later."

"What for?" The incredulous look is directed at both of them, this time. "You've been looking forward to this shindig for months. You'd think you were goin' on a honeymoon or something, the way you've talked about nothing else, Jim. And you're not fooling anyone, Spock, you wanted to go too. Why?"

Spock is silent.

"Oh, so you'll expect me to just take your word for it but you won't tell him? He says he has a 'sense of foreboding' about it, Bones."

"And…?"

"That's it." He finishes the hot chocolate, burns his tongue in the rush, and swears under his breath as McCoy turns an incredulous look at their companion.

"Seriously?"

"When am I not, Doctor. Apparently, however, my instincts are not sufficient to prompt a course of action any longer, as previously was the case aboard the _Enterprise._ "

"That's a cheap shot, _Ambassador_." He spits the title with more than a little bite, because it _was_ a cheap shot and they both know it. Neither of them were happy when Starfleet decided they didn't want to keep the crew together for a fifth mission, but it was Spock's deciding not to stay Terra-based or indeed even officially stay in Starfleet which really rankled him at the time. That's water under a long-burned bridge now, but obviously Spock still remembers perfectly where the weak spots are in his walls.

Spock is pulling out all the stops, because he doesn't even look regretful about the words – he just continues to stare them both down as he has been since the conversation started.

Jim takes a deep breath; he's not going to further bury them in this hole, he knows better than that. "I am not discounting your instincts, Spock; gods know you've been proven right more times than I can count. But we can't just bail on such a huge commitment. Do you have any idea the hell there would be to pay with Starfleet Command?"

"I am certain they will soon find other matters of importance to occupy their attention."

"Easy for you to say," McCoy mutters. "You can go scootin' back to New Vulcan whenever the urge hits you. We have to stay and deal with the fallout."

"Jim." Spock's eyes are dark with foreboding, as he completely ignores the doctor in favor of trying to take over his entire attention. "You are aware I do not, and never have, made such statements lightly. I have an exceedingly bad… _feeling,_ about this expedition."

The unusual word, never before used in such an official context, stops both him and McCoy cold, because for Spock to say that…

A sudden dark cloud of unease descends upon him as well, the chill having nothing to do with the brisk California air.

"Did you just say you have a bad _feeling_ about it, Spock?"

Spock nods solemnly. "Yes, Doctor. As I said, I do not make such statements lightly."

"You 'do not make such statements' at all," Jim points out.

"Then take my request seriously, Admiral!"

The sudden vehemence in the words, almost desperate in its earnestness, appears to startle them all equally, and again the ominous chill seems to settle over his soul.

"Spock…look, I wish I could just call it off, but I can't bail on them at the last second like this. It's a huge publicity stunt, I gave them my word…I'll tell them you had something come up, a diplomatic mission or something, but I for one still have to go."

Spock's eyes are dark with foreboding. "I ask you to reconsider, Admiral."

He shivers at the ice in the tone, and wonders if it's anger or fear – or both. Even after all these decades, he can't always tell.

"Spock, I can't. We'll be careful, I promise."

"What could possibly happen, anyway?" McCoy interjects, clearly more concerned with Spock's state of mind now than anything else. "The thing's been lauded for months as the safest ship in the 'Fleet, even if they're cutting the deadline close. Are you afraid construction's not quite finished or something? I can pull some strings and get Scotty aboard to look at it if that's what's worrying you. Harriman's CMO and I go way back."

"I have no concrete reasons for my statement, Doctor. Believe me, if I did, I would already have cared for the issue."

Jim sighs, fiddles with the lid of his empty cup. He's so out of his depth now, it's really kind of sad. He wishes not for the first time, for simpler days; but life moves on, and they must move with it, making way for the next generation of starry-eyed young hopefuls to reach for their dreams in the stars.

"I know we're skirting really close to Romulan space but they haven't made a move against us in almost a decade; we'll be fine."

Spock regards him for a moment, posture stiff and expression carefully blank. "In the twelve hours remaining until the departure, I ask that you reconsider."

"You are really starting to scare me a little, Spock. Did you, like, have some weird vision or something?"

"Negative. I cannot explain the…feeling. Merely that it exists. We must not go. _You_ _must not go_."

"I can't believe I'm saying this to a Vulcan, but you're going to have to give me more to go on than just a bad feeling," he replies, not unkindly.

Spock's lips tighten, but he turns to leave without another word. For a moment, the stately dark robes seem to twist about him, shimmering for a moment into familiar and yet so distant Science blue – a color he never realized he would miss until life moved on quietly without them a few years ago. Then the vision vanishes as quickly as it had appeared, and Spock disappears around the corner.

Jim watches him go, strangely uneasy in the solitude of the deserted Academy grounds. The bench creaks as McCoy slowly lowers himself to sit beside him with a small grunt.

"That was beyond weird, wasn't it? It's not just me?" he asks, running an uneasy hand through his hair.

"Not just you. If I didn't know he was completely healthy, I'd suspect early-onset Bendii syndrome or something. And if he wasn't Vulcan, I'd think you were getting pranked."

"God, I wish I could read him like I used to, Bones." He blows out a frustrated breath, vapor whirling about in a cloud before him before vanishing like ghosts in the dawn. "I hate change."

"We all do, Jim. Problem is, life goes on. With or without us."

"Preferably with?"

"Got no plans to go anywhere except to bed," the doctor declares with a yawn, well understanding the meaning behind his words and reassuring in an equally lighthearted fashion. They know each other too well, after all this time. "Working the overnight shift isn't as fun as it used to be. These kids make it look way too easy."

Jim smiles briefly, claps his friend on the knee as he stands. "Why don't you crash at my apartment, it's closer. I'll swing by later to pick up my luggage, we can grab lunch before she takes off."

"Ain't gonna turn down that offer." McCoy stands, slightly stiff, and stretches before turning to leave. "I'll see if I can figure out what's eating Spock too, Jim."

"Thanks," he says quietly, already lost in thought.

It's strange, being here on these grounds when they're so abandoned – usually they're so chaotic, bustling with excited young men and women and everything in-between. But this weekend, most of the cadets are off-site for the week-long holiday, having beamed home or off to stay with friends in the city. They'll return tonight, filling the place back up with life and light and hope for the future. He won't be here to welcome his students back, but they'll have plenty to occupy their attention with the broadcast party in the main quadrangle for anyone who wants to watch.

The maiden voyage of the _Enterprise-B_ is, after all, the launch event of the decade.

* * *

Spock doesn't answer his comm the rest of the day and into the afternoon, a concerning event in itself, but he has to finally put their disagreement behind him and prepare for the voyage; two weeks in deep space, something he hasn't done in several years. He's more excited than he admitted even to Spock and McCoy – he belongs here, among the stars, and while he is far beyond desiring command of this beautiful vessel, he is thrilled beyond belief that he was asked to attend the first voyage she makes.

Why Spock refuses to come with him just because of a strange vibe he's getting, is completely beyond him; but he can't let that dampen his enthusiasm. Spock's been weird ever since he and Uhura decided to legally separate a few years ago. Spock's diplomatic duties and her pursuing a career as a senior translator aboard a ship headed for a ten-year mission in uncharted deep space had put too much friction on their relationship, and they'd decided they would be better off as friends again, rather than attempting to keep a romantic component in their relationship when they were only in physical proximity once every three years or so, if that. While they had only been married for a decade, they'd been together for over two, and though Spock expressed no lasting regrets over the amicable separation Jim knew it had been rough on both of them, the first few months. Last they spoke, Uhura was excelling in her new position, and they were heading ever deeper past the point where any Federation ship had gone in that particular sector of space – she was loving it, and that made both him and Spock very happy.

But it's times like this he wishes they were still together; he could talk to her then and try to figure out what in the name of all that's logical is going on with Spock. Now, he has to figure it out on his own – and he just doesn't have the time for that today. He may not even have the skill, after all these years, and the thought makes him unaccountably sad.

But no one, least of all he, can stay melancholy for long with this sight before them. The _Enterprise-B_ lights up the sky for miles around as she hovers in a purposely low dry-dock over New San Francisco, glittering with a pristine brilliance that makes his heart skip a beat. Rumor has it that she's full of brand-new technology waiting to be tested, cutting-edge stuff that Scotty, bless his heart, would kill to get his hands on. Jim hopes he'll get to tour the engine rooms during the shakedown; surely nobody will deny one of the original _Enterprise_ captains access to anything, right? Plus, the crew hasn't all been chosen yet so this shakedown is operating on only a skeleton; there probably won't be enough people to really stop him. He grins at the thought.

His bag has already been beamed aboard, and after greeting a few people on the ground and answering some questions for the eager press with the ease that comes of decades of practice, he follows suit in one of the smoothest transports he's ever had; already, he's much impressed with the technology.

His guest quarters are easily located from the ship's computer, and he's amused to see a lighted pathway blink cheerfully into existence along the floors after his destination is specified. Fancy.

"Computer, what is the time?" he inquires, as he exits the turbolift onto the guest quarters deck.

_"The current Federation Standard Time is nineteen hundred hours, thirty-six minutes. Twenty-four minutes remain until launch."_

"Thank you, computer."

 _"You are welcome, Admiral Kirk."_ He raises an eyebrow at the personalized response, slightly weirded out by the cheerfulness of the automaton.

He enters his quarters and immediately tries to comm Spock again, with no success. The communicator simply chimes and chimes and finally goes to a recorded message. Frustrated, he decides against comm-ing McCoy to rant about it, and instead sets about unpacking the few things he brought with him and then wanders out into the ship, exploring the closest passageways. He happens upon a private observation deck, which currently looks out on Terra. The ship hangs dangerously low in the atmosphere on purpose due to the publicity of the launch, never to do so again since without the supporting anti-gravity fields of the extended dry dock she would be pulled in by Terra's gravity. This is the only time he will get a view like this from a starship this size, and it's breathtaking.

His communicator chirps. He glances at the caller identification and flips it open on the instant.

"Where the hell have you been! I've been trying to comm you all afternoon!"

Spock's voice, oddly tinny through the instrument, is flat with a lack of emotion that betrays only too well how very much he is controlling that emotion - something which is in itself a little alarming. _"I was meditating the majority of the afternoon, Admiral. During such times I am unaware of my surroundings. I regret having caused you unease regarding my whereabouts."_

He leans against the bulkhead with a dismissive gesture he knows won't be seen. "I wish you would come with me."

_"And I wish you would decline the invitation altogether."_

"Everyone's so disappointed you're not here too."

_"I am certain they will have other things to think about, sir."_

He vents a long, weary sigh. "Seriously, though. Why couldn't you just come?"

_"My work here is not yet done, Admiral."_

He snorts. "It's two weeks, Spock. Important as your work is, I think New Vulcan could survive for that long without you."

There's a weirdly long pause.

"Spock?"

_"Yes, Jim."_

"I thought maybe the connection broke or something."

 _"Negative."_ He starts slightly as the ship's intra-comm blares loudly, informing everyone with intense mechanical cheerfulness that launch time is now exactly fifteen minutes away.

"I'd better get going, they want me on the Bridge during the launch sequence," he says quietly. "Where are you, anyway?"

There's another long pause. _"At your apartment in New San Francisco,"_ is the hesitant reply. _"You did say I was welcome to –"_

"Yes, of course, Spock, that's why you have the codes to it," he interrupts gently. "Be my guest. There's probably nothing edible in there though, I haven't made a grocery run in over a week. And I told Bones he could stay there today, hope he didn't disturb your meditation. We were supposed to go to lunch but I got stuck at the Academy with last-minute lesson plan changes, never made it back."

_"While I am not hungry, the warning is appreciated and I will relay it to Doctor McCoy. He was not intrusive."_

"Okay…well, I'll get going. You guys make yourselves at home, Spock. I'll see you when I get back."

_"Rom-halan, Jim."_

"See you." He snaps the communicator shut, shaking his head in bemusement, and heads toward the bridge. He has a ship to watch launch.

* * *

"Initiate pre-launch checklist."

"Aye, sir."

Ten minutes before countdown begins, the _Enterprise-B_ bridge crew – was he ever really that young? – eagerly begins the pre-launch checklist, leaving him free to amble about the place, careful to stay out of the new crew's way but eagerly looking at anything he can get close enough to inspect with hard-earned curiosity. The new bridge is beautiful; he's still partial to the layout of his own _Enterprise_ but this one is a beauty all her own, the colors a little darker, a little sleeker – but still easily recognizable by feel alone as his Silver Lady, just a different incarnation of her.

Several minutes go by as the checklist is run through, and he meanders aimlessly back toward the turbolift, which seems to be the best place to stand out of the way of the rushing crew. He smiles as a young Vulcan in science blues, headed for the Library station, nearly trips over his own feet staring at him in unabashed curiosity.

Spock. He still can't shake that ominous feeling, and it's only gotten worse since they talked a few minutes ago. He doesn't believe in premonitions, _per se_ , but he's seen weirder things than telepathic or predictive instinct; however, Spock hadn't given him any such more concrete reason, merely said he had a bad _feeling_ about the cruise. Why then is it sticking so much in his head? Is Spock's paranoia rubbing off on him? What is he missing here?

"Checklist complete, Captain."

"Excellent work, Ensign. Notify Spacedock that we are Go for launch."

"Aye, sir."

And that last conversation, had just gotten progressively weirder. Why would Spock be staying at Jim's apartment in San Francisco when he had his own quarters reserved at the Vulcan Embassy, in addition to Sarek's old family home there in the central city itself? From start to finish, the conversation had gotten more and more strange, all the way to that unusually Vulcan version of _au_ _revoir_...

He freezes, time seemingly slowing to a stop around him.

His Vulcan is pretty rusty after not having any occasion to use it for several months, but now it's coming back to him. Vulcan is a remarkably specific language, and that particular half-Vulcan has always been remarkably specific, even when he isn't trying to be.

 _Abi'yi_ is the Vulcan word for _until next time_.

 _Rom-halan_ …is the Vulcan word for _goodbye_.

Spock was telling him goodbye.

"Captain Harriman," he blurts, grasping for his communicator with shaking hands.

"Yes, Admiral?" The smiling young man swivels the central seat toward him, and then leans forward, smile disappearing at the sight of his pale face. "Are you all right, sir?"

"I must apologize, Harriman, but I've just received some extremely bad news from home which necessitates my return to Terra immediately," he says, half-truth and half-slightly-truth. "I have no doubt that you will perform admirably on this shakedown cruise, and you have my best wishes and every confidence."

Harriman is a good captain, and a kind man; he is obviously disappointed, but is more than courteous to the last, and even sends one of his bridge crew to escort Jim to the transporter room, expressing his concern and well-wishes for the 'family emergency.' The beam-down is swift, and Jim doesn't even care if his bag makes it back with him before the launch, which is actually already being counted down by the time his feet hit _terra firma_ in San Francisco just outside the main transport station.

He pulls out his communicator and comms Spock again, watching the numbers count down from ten on the huge vid-screen publicly broadcasting the launch in the terminal's outdoor square.

 _"Admiral?"_ Spock's voice is obviously, almost painfully, confused.

"I'm not on it," he says breathlessly.

_"Sir?"_

"I'm not on it, I said – the _Enterprise_ , I just beamed back to San Francisco. I decided not to go."

The numbers read zero, and the broadcast switches to live feed of the drydock far above them. The ship begins to move, shivers regally as her impulse engines ignite, and moves beyond the drydock doors into open space. She shudders again, he well knows the feel of powerful warp engines firing up under one's feet, lights shiver and twinkle slightly around the edges of the hull as she makes preparation to leap into warp –

And the sky erupts above them in a fireball that shorts out the primary video feed. He vaguely registers horrified exclamations from the live reporters on the scene in addition to every spectator standing around him in the crowded terminal. The screen fills with static before flipping to the filler graphic with Federation insignia, which indicates signal has been irretrievably lost.

For a moment, he can only stare at the sky, on fire far above them, a hand over his mouth. "Oh, my God."

Spock's voice over the communicator, pained and just…sad. _"The doctor and I are watching from your balcony, Admiral."_ There's the sound of a brief scuffle, and from further away through the connection, he hears McCoy's raised voice, obviously panicking.

"Tell Bones I'm fine before he has a heart attack. I'm outside at the transport terminal. The sky's on fire, Spock, the warp engines must have just blown completely, I'm guessing a matter/antimatter leak due to gravity strain…they'll have to put up a radiation forcefield around the whole city…oh God." His free hand grasps his hair in a helpless gesture. "There's zero chance of survivors. Jesus. Spock…"

 _"I did not know this would happen, Admiral."_ Spock's voice is pained. _"Had I even imagined something of this severity would occur, I would have warned Starfleet Command."_

"You can't feel guilty over this. They wouldn't have believed your 'bad feeling' any more than I did, probably. I'm sorry, Spock."

_"Apologies are illogical, Admiral."_

"Yeah, well. It's not been the most logical day for either of us, has it." He looks up, curses softly. Ducking his head to avoid recognition, he begins slipping through the crowd toward the crowded streets a short distance away. "Look, you have some explaining to do, but I need to get out of here, reporters are already out looking to interview witnesses. Stay there and I'll see you in ten, yeah?"

There's a brief pause, and Spock's voice returns. _"The doctor requests you bring an evening meal, something other than, and I quote, 'the heart disease in a box' you have in the apartment currently."_

"Dude, tell him to stay out of my Twinkies. I'll stop at that vegetarian restaurant on the corner on my way, call the order ahead for me. Then you'd better start thinking about an explanation, Mister, because I want one. And it had better be good."

* * *

The hovercab is automated, which is just as well because the last thing he wants is to have to chat with a driver, but that means it won't dart through traffic or speed like a living person would. It's more than a half hour before he stumbles through his front door with three takeout bags and a six-pack, only to be literally _grabbed_ before the door even slides shut behind him.

"Jim!" Bones is flipping. The hell. Out. "Are y'all right? Why aren't you on that ship? I mean, it’s a good thing you're not but why the –"

"Ugh, Bones, let me get inside at least. Calm down." He wriggles out from under the clawing grip and deposits the food wearily onto the kitchen counter. Beer bottles clink as they follow suit soon after. "I got off her right before she launched. If you can call that a launch. God, those poor kids – I've never seen an explosion like that. There’s going to be _hell_ to pay for this. I don't know if it was technical or human error or just bad engineering, but there's not been an air accident that bad since the _Intrepid_ …"

"But why weren't you on it?" the physician demands, pale as a sheet. "Don't tell me you actually went along with Spock's _weird feeling_?"

"Where is he, anyway?"

"Out there, talking to Nyota on the long-distance comm," McCoy replies, jerking a thumb toward the balcony doors. "Seriously, you got off that thing because of his whatever-it-was, premonition?"

The Vulcan in question re-enters, leaving the sliding doors open to permit the sea breeze, and Jim meets his eyes for the first time. Spock looks so openly relieved, so humanly glad to see him, that his anger born of fright and horror for the most part drain away.

"Not because of his weird feeling, but because – what the hell were you doing, just telling me goodbye like that?" he demands, gesticulating wildly with the beer bottle he'd been in the process of opening. "You were just going to let me leave, knowing I wasn't coming back, and not say anything else?"

Spock turns a whole different shade of white. "I – that was not my intention, Admiral." He swallows visibly. "I did not know what was going to happen."

"And you lie as well now as you did thirty years ago. Tell me the truth, Spock. And drop the titles, would you? I cannot deal with that tonight." He collapses into his favorite armchair, not caring that a little beer sloshes over the side of the bottle.

"I did not know what would happen, Jim; had I, I would have told you, indeed I would have prevented the ship from departing at all. As I said, I had only a foreboding that something unfortunate would occur at some point during the voyage and that it would likely involve your person." Spock sits opposite him, on the couch, and looks unaccountably weary.

"A foreboding strong enough that you weren't about to get on the thing yourself," he says pointedly.

"As I said, Jim – my work is not yet done and there are young lives dependent upon my return to New Vulcan. I could not simply leave, knowing the strong likelihood I would not be returning, since I would do everything in my power to see that you did."

Yeah, okay, he can't stay angry with Spock when he says things like that, but that doesn't mean he isn't still freaked out as hell. He drains the rest of the bottle in one go and leans forward, elbows on his knees. His headache is increasing, not decreasing, and he thinks absently it's probably time he takes Bones's advice and starts using reading glasses, that will probably help.

"Y'all are scarin' me," McCoy interjects, plopping down beside Spock with a grunt. He fishes out a cushion from behind him and dumps it on the floor in irritation, before turning to fix both of them with a glare. "There's something you're not telling us, Spock. More to it than just your weird little feeling, isn't there?"

"There is, Doctor."

"Well, spit it out." A carton of vegetable sushi is shoved unceremoniously into his hands, and McCoy sits back with his own, looking expectant.

Spock sighs. "I have nothing especially concrete I can give you, Doctor; merely something my elder self urgently told me, soon before he died."

Jim sits up in interest. "You both were always crazy careful to not pollute the timestreams, I thought."

"Indeed; even in this, he gave me only one very general piece of advice, which I at the time discarded as a product of a failing mind, since it was exceedingly illogical in nature and it was shortly before his passing."

"Which was?"

"That if there were to come a time, in our later years, where you were asked to attend but not command a mission, for purely recreational or propaganda purposes – if such a time came, and I were to feel a strange foreboding regarding it, that I was under no circumstances to permit you to go, as you would likely not return from it. That I must follow my instincts, however illogical the feeling might be, because he did not; and he regretted it for the remainder of his life."

Jim blinks, trying to absorb this. "You mean that's how his Jim Kirk died?"

"Apparently. I can only speculate, as I have no data."

"You couldn't have just _told_ me this?!"

McCoy snorts into his lo mein.

"Your destiny is your own, Admiral. I could not."

"My destiny hasn't been my own since the day I was born, Spock!"

"Jim. Leave him alone, you know you both were instructed not to distort the timestream. Which we've already done way too many times, Captain Back-from-the-Dead, probably shouldn't add another one to it. Much as I hate to think of what almost happened, you did the right thing, Spock."

"Unfortunately for the crew of the _Enterprise-B_ , I never imagined that the event which would occur would be a wholesale loss of crew and ship. Such an air accident has not happened in many years. We are personally very fortunate, Doctor, that the admiral chose to leave the ship when he did."

"I can't believe you even remembered that bit of advice, all these years later. Must be handy, havin' an eidetic memory." Jim is well aware that Bones is nowhere near as calm as he's pretending to be, he's putting up a front of normality for all their sakes – and while he appreciates the effort it's a little pointless when they can all see the man's hands shaking too badly to keep the rice on his plasticene fork.

He's not in much better shape, honestly; and Spock has obviously given up any pretense of picking at his own meal.

Behind him, his apartment comm-system begins ringing insistently.

"Yeah, I probably should let someone at Headquarters know I wasn't aboard after all," he mutters, heaving himself out of the chair with a weary reluctance. He feels ten years older than he did this morning; their lives seem to do that.

"It's enough to make a man want to retire," he hears McCoy say from behind him, during a pause when he's on hold with Admiral Decker's secretary. He half-turns, frowning, to look at the two on his couch.

"That would be a great loss to Starfleet, given that you have at least four decades of possible service left," Spock replies quietly.

"Says the one who bailed on us years ago?" The sharp retort produces a look of clear guilt, to which the physician slumps back on the couch, running a hand over his face. "Sorry, that was uncalled-for."

"Your feelings are human, and therefore justified."

McCoy's response is too quiet for him to hear, since Admiral Decker comes on the line just then and the next few minutes are spent in making up completely bullshit excuses for not being aboard the _Enterprise_ -B, agreeing to meetings the following day for damage control, etc., etc. This is the part of the job he hates the most, the paperwork and bureaucracy.

After speaking with Decker, he's transferred back to his hysterical teaching aide, because he needs the curriculum for the next two weeks sent to him asap, since he'll be here teaching after all and because the poor kid is probably losing his mind at this point.

He has to record a temporary message of reassurance on his teaching comm, and when that's done he shuts off the communicator for the night, because he knows after years of experience that probably it will be ringing off the hook the rest of the evening if he doesn't.

When he's finished, he pauses for a moment, unaccountably tired, and leans against the counter, eyes closed. The images of an hour before still replay in vivid detail against his eyelids, and he still can't quite grasp the fact that were it not for him recognizing Spock's farewell for what it really was, he would have been aboard the ship when it left drydock. He's had close calls before – closer than this, technically, though that's really not funny right now – but this one shakes him to the core, in a way he hasn't felt in years.

They're too old for this.

"No, dammit - I'm a doctor, not a diplomat!" Whatever Spock just said, it evidently was enough to set McCoy off on a whole new rant. Jim turns around, lips twitching in amusement despite the seriousness of the evening's events.

Spock looks boredly over the top of his sushi container. "That I was quite aware of, I assure you, Doctor. Your irascible bedside manner at the best of times, and complete lack of tact at the worst of times, more than inform all around you of that fact."

"You make another crack like that, and you'll be a victim of that 'irascible bedside manner'! Remember, I got clearance to all kinds of classified bio-weapons now, and you're dead to the world when you do that meditatin' voodoo. I could've drawn a mustache on you earlier this afternoon and you never would have known."

"You would have deeply regretted such a course of action."

McCoy's eyes flash with pure evil. "Wanna bet?"

Jim resists the urge to slam his head against the wall. Repeatedly. Dialing up his replicator's beverage scripts, he selects the one for strong black coffee and presses it. He half-wonders if he should go ahead and just make popcorn at this point and settle back to watch. Are they really that stupid, to think he has no idea exactly what they're doing? He loves them for the distraction, both of them, but right now it's just grating on his already raw nerves.

The replicator pings cheerfully, offering him his coffee with a mechanical flourish, and he takes it with a sigh, slipping through the balcony doors while they're still engrossed in their therapeutic catfight.

He should have known it wouldn't take very long before hesitant footsteps draw near behind him, pause a few centimeters away and to his right. He hides a smile in his cup, because even after so many years (decades), the habit is apparently hard to break. Wherever their location, Spock still tends to hover right at his elbow, just as he always has.

For a moment they both just watch in silence as the sun sinks low in the fiery sky, still ablaze with the reflective angry hues of radiation. A tiny fireball explodes somewhere over the Bay, debris falling from the atmosphere, and his heart hurts for that beautiful _Enterprise_ , plummeting with it into the cold water below.

He nudges the still figure beside him with a gentle elbow. "You two done with the hair-pulling, then?"

Spock actually rolls his eyes, a human gesture he's never really been great at suppressing as well as his parallel-universal counterpart. "No such activity occurred, Admiral."

"Can you not –"

"Jim."

"Thank you." He sighs, sets the cup down on the railing and then follows, leaning on it with both forearms. "Is he okay, you think?"

"I believe so." Neither of them have to further explain. Silence falls again, broken only by the picking up of a more brisk sea breeze.

Spock retreats further into his meditation robe, and Jim glances sideways at him. "And you?"

"And I what."

"Don't play stupid with me, Spock. Are you okay?"

"Affirmative."

"Annnnd yeah, you still can't look me in the eye when you're lying, can you." He shakes his head fondly, returning his gaze to the skies. "I don't mind telling you I'm pretty damn freaked out, myself. It's been way too long since we stared death in the face like that, Spock."

"I concur." A soft rustling as his former XO moves up to the railing beside him, also gazing morosely out over the city. "I would be quite content to not do so again for many years."

"Well, you got any other weird pieces of 'advice' from the other you still floating around up in there that you haven't used yet in this timeline?"

Spock's eyebrows furrow, a clear sign of irritation. Jim grins unrepentantly. "Negative," Spock says finally, with what he can only assume is relief. "This was the only incident which had not yet been resolved."

Jim turns, leans his elbows backward on the railing so he can face his former First instead of looking sideways at him. "Why'd you sit on that piece of knowledge for so long without at least telling someone, anyway?"

"I could not disclose the information, to you or anyone else; to do so would distort the timeline. I had no way of knowing when the incident would occur, or if it was preventable in any way, as I had no specifics other than a vague reference to post-Enterprise mission timeline by which to base a hypothesis."

Jim has to agree; had he known at any point, really, that he was 'scheduled' to die so early, it would definitely have had an effect on his decisions throughout his recent life. But to think that Spock's been sitting on that, for so many years, not knowing when the sword would drop –

He looks up with newfound realization, and sees the answer in Spock's still-pained eyes.

"That's why you left, isn't it?" he asks quietly. If he needed any confirmation, Spock's look of surprise, chased quickly by guilt, is enough to prove him right. "You were distancing yourself on purpose, so it wouldn't be as painful. God knows you've lost enough for one lifetime."

"My intention was never to…abandon either my duties to the 'Fleet or you – either of you," Spock amends, glancing back toward the open doors. "But…your conjecture is correct. I saw no logical alternative to surviving a similar fate as that of my counterpart."

"My _god_ , Spock. I'm so sorry."

He can't imagine; were their positions reversed, he probably would have corrupted the timestream to stop it from happening long before the instance occurred, and who knows what would have resulted. He's not sure he could be strong enough to live knowing someday the other shoe was going to drop like that; if he ever loses one of these two he knows the void will probably kill him. He can't imagine knowing that he would lose them and have to live another eighty-plus years afterwards with that void. It makes him sick just to think about it.

Spock tilts his head slightly, a familiar gesture that sends a fond warmth through him, banishing some of the chill from the evening's events. "I had anticipated being in a completely different mental state tonight. I am…pleased, that somehow, you circumvented what was to happen."

"I tend to do that. With a little help from my friends."

"Indeed." And this really _is_ a day for miracles, because that's actually a teeny tiny little smile he's seeing. He returns it, feeling at peace again for the first time in a very, very long time. For a moment they simply stand there, letting the silence heal a rift that he hadn't even realized had started to form over the last few years, and then he turns back to the city, now twinkling with a sea of tiny lights.

"There's talk of beginning a student exchange program with the New Vulcan Science Academy."

"I am aware. I am one of the few Vulcans over age fifty who is a proponent of such a program," Spock replies dryly.

He snorts to cover up a laugh, at the thought of what a radical Spock must seem to the younger, much less staid Vulcan generation which has developed as a result of much of Vulcan's culture being lost with the planet.

"Starfleet's proposing a series of mid-space missions, run mostly by cadets from one or both academies. They would give cadets on the command, engineering, or science tracks a full year's worth of credits in only two trimesters, like a short-term internship. To accelerate their passage into the ‘Fleet if they can pass the rigorous tests involved."

"I was also aware of that." Spock looks slightly amused. "Admiral, one of my duties as a Federation ambassador is that of proposing new ventures to various cultures who might not at first be amenable to the idea. My own is no exception."

Jim half-turns to glare at him. "Are you the reason the proposal was stalled in the NVSA for three weeks?"

Spock's lips twitch. "I am the reason it was not stalled for _longer_ than that. _Sir_."

The sass is so real. He laughs then, like he hasn't all day, maybe not in a long time. "I should have known. _Ambassador_." The title is fondly teasing this time, not the accusation it had been earlier. "If all the plans go through, they'll be implementing the curricula for the upcoming fall trimester."

Spock's eyebrow is a clear indication for him to continue. "It's been suggested among the Admiralty that I instruct the module, at least for the first eight trimesters. None of the other instructing admirals really want to go back into space for two years straight, and they don't want to throw a current captain into the mix just yet for a program beta-test."

"You are by far the best choice at any rate, Admiral."

He can't help but brighten, as Spock's praise is exceedingly rare, and not given lightly. It never fails to make him stupidly warm and happy inside.

"That being said, should I accept the position, I will find myself in need of an experienced senior command crew, as none of the ranking positions will be held by cadets," he says slowly, watching his former First carefully.

Spock blinks at him impassively for a moment, before Jim picks up on the clear mischief glinting in the back of his eyes.

"You're going to make me say it, aren't you?"

"Sir?"

He smiles, but his expression is serious when he continues, hoping Spock can see his earnestness. "I don't want you to think I'm dismissing your current work, Spock. And lord knows you have every right to follow your own destiny, wherever that takes you."

Spock raises an eyebrow. "I am not sanguine about the concept of destiny. However, should such a universal force exist, I have no doubt that yours is, first and always, to command a starship."

"And yours, Mr. Spock?"

"I heard once, long ago, from an…undeniable authority on the subject, that mine is to be by your side. _Captain_."

His smile lights up the night, and he's probably about ten seconds from doing something that will make Spock thoroughly uncomfortable like hugging him, when a throat clears from behind them. They both turn, to see McCoy leaning against the open door-jamb, hands in his pockets.

"Y'owe me fifty credits, Spock," he drawls with a smirk. "I _told_ you there's no way he was going back up there with a bunch of smartass kids and not dragging you along to chaperone."

Spock doesn't even bother to pretend ignorance of the metaphor, and completely ignores that he apparently just lost a bet. "Dragging _us_ along, Doctor."

Jim turns an incredulous eye toward the sheepish figure in his doorway. "And when exactly were you going to tell me that, Doctor? Last I heard, you said in no uncertain terms that you were not interested in, I think the exact wording you used was 'galactic babysitting.'"

"Yeah, well." McCoy shuffles out of their way as they re-enter the apartment, flopping back down on Jim's couch with a grumpy huff and putting his arms behind his head. "Like I'm letting the two of you out of my sight for two years with some young idiot straight out of med school for your Chief Medical Officer, mid-space only or no."

"Medical is not part of this new module, Doctor; no medical personnel except the precautionary minimum are required for the program, as the missions undertaken should only rarely enter deep space."

McCoy doesn't even bother to open his eyes, just waves a sleepy hand in the air to punctuate his statement. "And you two are the most danger-prone morons I've ever met in my entire life, so your point is…?"

"Point taken," Jim interrupts what promises to be another dual hissy-fit with practiced ease. "I'm…glad you're in, Bones. Thank you."

"Uh-huh. Thank me again when you see your meal card restrictions aboard ship."

He scowls, and stealthily goes to check in the pantry to make sure McCoy didn't toss his snack cakes down the disposal chute before he got home. When he comes back, it's to see Spock fussing with the afghan which had been bunched up at the end of the couch, obviously trying to cover the doctor's legs with it without waking him. It's kind of adorable, and he carefully hides a smile as Spock finally gives up the endeavor and moves back across the room to the kitchen area, where Jim is sitting on one of the bar stools, chin resting in one hand.

"He worries me, sometimes," he says softly. Spock's head inclines in silent agreement as he slides silently into position on the other stool. "I'm glad you talked him into coming on the program missions."

Spock's lips curve gently upward. "Whatever would give you that idea, Admiral?"

"Yes, of course, my mistake," he answers solemnly.

"I find it difficult to believe that even after such extensive experience with our temperaments, you would still labor under the impression that it is possible to convince the doctor to do anything which he does not wish to do."

"Or vice-versa, I suppose."

"Naturally, sir."

He smiles, and sends out one last prayer of gratitude to the elder Spock, wherever his spirit may be in the universes, for bending the timeline rules enough to give his Spock a hint of what would happen today, just enough to save his life. How his Spock managed to pull him back without endangering the timestream only proves just how closely intertwined their destinies truly are; and it doesn't take any great logic to deduce that in the wake of tonight's sudden events and the realization that they've now dodged a bullet, they've all realized they need to take advantage of whatever time destiny has decided they have left, however long that may be and however exciting that time may be.

Who knows? With their luck, while they're on these training missions some kind of weird alien probe could threaten to destroy Earth's ecology, for instance, and they'd have to freaking time travel or something to fix it because the whole on-world 'Fleet has been knocked out of commission.

Wouldn't that be hilarious?


End file.
